The Champion's Legacy
by Srikanth1808
Summary: Sequel to "The Other Champion": The events of the Triwizard Tournament have left the wizarding world in a lurch. New bonds will be made, old ones will be tested, and with the Ministry behaving like ostriches, the occupants of Hogwarts will face their biggest test yet this year. The time has come to choose between what is easy...and what is right.
1. Prologue

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Prologue**

* * *

 _ **Location: Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

 _ **Date: The twenty-fourth of June, nineteen ninety-five**_

 _ **Time: Around eleven forty-four in the evening**_

* * *

' _Severus,' said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, 'you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready…if you are prepared…'_

' _I am,' said Snape._

 _He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely._

' _Then good luck,' said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius._

…

* * *

 _ **Location: Little Hangleton Graveyard, England**_

 _ **Date: The twenty-fifth of June, nineteen ninety-five**_

 _ **Time: Around twelve thirty-three in the morning**_

* * *

A multitude of stars twinkled in the dark sky above, many miles away from the sloping grounds of Hogwarts School. It was a warm summer night; a gentle breeze blew across the landscape, which could hardly be considered as a picturesque scene. The house by the hillside was dilapidated and broken, while the church appeared to be equally abandoned.

A soft crack punctuated the silence that had pervaded the area. A figure in black robes and a hooded travelling cloak had materialised out of nowhere beside the church. It stood still for a moment, as though appearing to take its bearings, then set off past the yew tree, towards the small valley below, where a number of tombstones lay arrayed in an unorganised, haphazard manner.

The figure's cloak trailed on the ground as it approached the graveyard; a cluster of dead leaves and stray twigs rustled in its wake. If it was trying to be quiet, it was not succeeding – but there did not seem to be anyone around to be alerted to its presence.

The tombstones glinted and shone slightly in the light of the stars above – the ones in white marble a bit brighter than the others. None of them seemed to be of names the figure recognised, for it proceeded without pause toward the centre of the graveyard, one hand inside its cloak, as though clutching something tightly.

The figure lowered its hood as it drew closer to its destination, revealing the visage of a pale, sallow-skinned man, framed by long black hair that was parted in curtains. His black eyes glittered slightly as he looked around, his mind taking in the scorch marks on the ground and tombstones alike, and pieces of marble scattered amongst the overgrown weeds.

At last, he reached the middle of the graveyard – and it was here that Severus Snape allowed his emotions to show for the first time that night.

 _Potter did put up a good fight._

An enormous stone cauldron stood off to the side, a trickle of white steam swirling around above it. A marble angel ten feet away to the right had the tip of its wing blown off, with the debris showered all around the cauldron and beyond. To the left was another marble headstone – but it was different from the others around it. For one, the headstone bore marks of something – or someone – being tied to it; it was cracked too, if the jagged lines on it were anything to go by. The overgrown grave at its base appeared trampled upon, as though someone had walked, or probably even run, upon it.

But by far the most distinguishing feature of that particular grave and headstone was, for Snape, the name inscribed upon it.

 _TOM RIDDLE_

A sudden movement in the shadows beyond his immediate range of vision caught Snape's attention. He gripped his wand tighter, even as his left forearm tingled once more.

'You are late, Severus.'

The voice was high, cold, and cruel – but Snape recognised it at once. Without another thought, he dropped to his knees, as though in subservience, and bowed his head.

'My Lord,' he said, raising his head just a fraction.

The thin man standing in front of him had skin whiter than a skull, with wide, livid, scarlet eyes, whose pupils were cat-like slits, gleaming in the darkness. His nose was as flat as a snake's, with slits for nostrils. His long, white fingers were caressing a long wand, as he looked upon Snape with a tilted head and an unreadable expression.

'I must admit, I did not expect you to return, Severus.'

Snape remained kneeling, even as he continued to stare straight at those gleaming red eyes. It was a challenge, a test of his loyalty – one which he had to pass in order to survive.

He felt a slight, almost non-existent presence probing the corners of his mind; at once, he dropped his Occlumency shields, which had been put up earlier out of sheer instinct and habit. He could feel the presence passing over his mind – hunting, seeking…

And then it was gone. Snape continued to look unblinkingly at the man, whose mouth had curved into a lipless smile.

'Rise, my old friend,' said the Dark Lord at last.

Snape got to his feet, taking care not to stumble on the edges of his cloak as he did so. He stood staring straight ahead, as Voldemort began to pace around him. Neither of them said anything for a good while: the silence stretched out before them, encasing them in a quiet bubble of contemplation.

Finally, Voldemort stopped his pacing right in front of Snape, and their gazes met once more.

'Dumbledore suspects nothing?' he asked softly.

'He believes I have returned on his orders,' replied Snape, just as quietly.

An owl hooted from the yew tree nearby.

'And what of your allegiance?'

'Nothing as of yet, my Lord.'

Voldemort exhaled softly. 'That is welcome news,' he said, 'one that I would gladly take, considering the events from earlier this evening…'

He trailed off. Snape said nothing, instead choosing to remain silent. He knew better than to incur the Dark Lord's wrath by commenting about Potter.

'But no matter,' continued Voldemort after a few moments. 'It is but a minor complication, one that can be easily managed.' He looked at Snape again. 'What news do you have for me?'

Snape inclined his head slightly. 'The Order of the Phoenix is to be re-started soon, my Lord. Dumbledore has already sent word to its former members.'

'As expected,' said Voldemort. 'You will be a part of it, of course?'

'Naturally,' said Snape with a curt nod.

'Good,' said Voldemort. 'A single spy within their ranks should suffice.'

They fell silent once more, the quietness broken only by another hoot from the owl on the yew tree. A few moments later, Voldemort spoke once more.

'There is much to discuss with you, Severus. I wish not to linger for long, not when Dumbledore has already made his move.' His red eyes gleamed still more brightly in the darkness. 'But first, tell me this: have you managed to hear the full prophecy?'

For the second time that night, Snape's emotions betrayed him: he blinked, and a slight frown of worry creased his face.

'My Lord, I –'

Voldemort shook his head, and Snape fell silent. 'No matter. Doubtless, Dumbledore would have ensured her full protection ever since that night.'

'If I may, my Lord,' said Snape, 'but Sybil Trelawney has no recollection of the prediction she made. Dumbledore has so far refused to share his memory of the prophecy with me.'

Voldemort did not respond immediately, instead choosing to stare at the large cauldron, as though in deep thought.

'I must hear the full prophecy, Severus,' he said at last. 'It is the one thing I need above everything else: the knowledge of how to destroy the boy.'

Snape said nothing. His expression was impassive. At last, Voldemort turned to face Snape, his red eyes glittering with anticipation.

'It must be retrieved from the Department of Mysteries. That is the only way.'

* * *

 **Author's Note: It's my beta Dorothea Greengrass' birthday today, so I decided to write this for her as a birthday present. Happy Birthday Dorothea, and thank you for reviewing this!**

 **This is just a sneak preview to the next story – that will be put up as per my earlier announcement i.e. January / February 2018. Anyway…what did you think?**


	2. Letters

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 1: Letters**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Terribly sorry to keep you all waiting. I've been swamped with so much work – at work, and at home – it's not even funny. Anyway, no excuses now – finally, I present to you the first chapter of The Other Champion – Part II (I'm calling it that until I get recommendations for better names). This story will be much longer than Part I, since a lot of the plot points from OotP need to be covered, or touched upon. I will bring a few of my own, but that's for later.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter, and providing me with the impetus to kick-start this story.**

 **Also, thanks to all of you for your patience, and kind reviews.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

The summer of the year nineteen ninety-five was a period of certain unusual occurrences across the British Isles. For one, temperatures were soaring – the residents of Little Whinging had audibly groaned and whined about the searing heat, and the consequent imposition of water use restrictions by the government. The lawns and parks in and around the area were now dry and yellow – if not for the lack of any breeze or dried leaves littering the ground, one would have been forgiven for thinking it was autumn.

For another, there was a distinct upturn in the number of owls being sighted in broad daylight. Notoriously difficult to spot even at night, their appearance during the sunlit hours had caused many a birdwatcher to abandon his or her usual chores at home and run outside for a look. When questioned, however, ornithologists were at a loss to explain this odd behaviour – as though the owls had simply reset their body clocks to become diurnal birds.

Thankfully, there was only one birdwatcher in the whole of Little Whinging: a batty old man who was wholeheartedly convinced that a raven flying by was a harbinger of 'bad, horrible things to come', as he termed it. As he lived alone in a rundown house on the other side of town, no one took him particularly seriously.

It was therefore fortunate, but of no great surprise, when he failed to notice the multitude of owls that regularly converged upon a single house on Privet Drive.

Unfortunately, the owner of the house, a large man with very little neck and a walrus moustache, _had_ noticed.

'How many times have I told you,' snarled Vernon Dursley over breakfast one morning, 'to keep that ruddy racket _down_!'

He glared at his nephew, a skinny, bespectacled boy with jet black hair and brilliant green eyes, who was wearing clothes that wouldn't have been form-fitting even on someone at least twice his size. The boy stared right back at him with a sullen expression – as though he dearly wished to respond, but knew it was better not to.

The racket in question had been caused by a particularly excitable owl – a tiny Scop – that had twittered madly around the third bedroom, evidently proud of the fact that it had, once again, completed a successful delivery. The miniscule bird's cries would have still been manageable – until it almost collided with a rather regal looking eagle owl that had just flown into the room. The ensuing shrieks from the two birds, combined with the loud, indignant squawks coming from a snowy white owl enclosed in a nearby cage, had caused quite the commotion earlier that morning.

Vernon Dursley did not like to be woken up that early in the morning. Especially when it was a Saturday.

He continued to glower at the skinny boy for a good while, as though continuous staring would somehow provoke his nephew to retort. But after some time, when it became clear that the boy would not respond, Vernon dropped his gaze to the newspaper in front of him, although he was still frowning.

A few minutes later, the boy stood up, his breakfast plate empty. Without a word, he turned, deposited his plate at the sink, and left the room. Vernon ignored him.

Just the way the boy liked it.

Harry bounded up the stairs two at a time and entered his room. He was quite thankful he had managed to control his temper at the table, and not resort to the rudeness that usually bubbled up when speaking to his living relatives. Indeed, he felt a bit proud that he'd managed to restrict himself to a sullen stare back at his Uncle; he was sure that, a year or two ago, he would have lost it completely.

Come to think of it, he had lost it two years ago – against his Aunt Marge, just before his third year at Hogwarts.

Harry brushed that incident off in his mind as inconsequential – he had not received any punishment for it; he had been able to achieve two completely Dursley-free weeks that summer; and most importantly, Aunt Marge had thoroughly deserved what had happened to her.

 _Shame she doesn't remember it, though._

Hedwig had given a low hoot of greeting when he entered the room; ten seconds later however, she was looking at him rather reproachfully after he dropped a few owl treats for her in the cage. Her larger amber eyes swivelled from him, to the treats, and back, as though meaning to say, 'Are you kidding?'

'Sorry Hedwig,' said Harry softly, sticking a finger through the bars of her cage to stroke her feathers. 'I wish I could let you out more often, but it's too dangerous now.' He sighed as Hedwig shifted to avoid his finger. 'I just want you to be safe, that's all.'

Her eyes softened slightly – if that could happen at all – but it was still with a slight amount of forced compliance, coupled with a desire for food, that she bent down to gobble up the owl treats.

Harry chuckled as he turned back to his desk, where the letters delivered by Pig and Archibald lay, unopened and waiting for him. With Uncle Vernon having almost burst into his room in rage at the noise caused by the hooting owls, he had not had the time to peruse what the owls had got him. In any case, he had made it a point to deal with his correspondence only after breakfast – the meals were sub-standard anyway, so it didn't make sense to potentially spoil them even further if the owls delivered bad news.

 _Good thinking, Harry. You're finally wising up._

He grinned to himself, for that thought was surely something he knew Daphne would say if she knew of his routine. Resisting the temptation to open her letter first, he picked up the envelope delivered by Pig, slit it open, and began to read the letter inside.

 _Harry –_

 _There's not been much happening around here. Apart from the secret meetings, of course. And the fact that the Burrow always seems to be full of people. Everyone seems to be coming and going – including McGonagall, can you believe it? I thought I heard Snape too, slimy git, but I couldn't be sure._

 _I think we're planning to move out in a few days, but I have no idea where to. Mum keeps talking about 'Islington', and 'that dingy old house' – d'you have any clue what she might mean?_

 _No word from Hermione yet, although there's a chance she might join us where we're going to. Mum said she's trying to speak to Dumbledore about getting her by next week – and you as well. I don't know what he said though._

 _Don't let the Muggles get you down, though. I'll try speaking to Dad to get you to come pronto. We can't be leaving you there alone for four weeks – not after last year._

 _Any word from the herbologist? I've got nothing on my side since my last letter last week._

 _Cheers,_

 _Ron_

Harry had to hand it to his best friend – Ron sounded a lot more assured and self-confident than he had ever been before. And he was writing in code – or at least, what could be passed off as code by Ron. He smirked as he imagined Hermione's exasperated reaction to Ron's attempts to deliver news from his side, while also asking for updates.

He re-read the letter, paying more attention to what Ron had written. So they were moving out of the Burrow – why, though? He felt a pang of unease inside his stomach – the Weasley house outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole was one of Harry's favourite places in the whole world. If the Weasleys had been forced to move out, something drastic had to have happened. And where were they going? Some 'dingy old house' in Islington? The only Islington he'd heard about was in London, but he didn't know anyone who stayed there. Probably a relative of the Weasleys?

He shrugged, and went back to the letter.

The mention of secret meetings, once again, was nothing new: Ron had written about them in almost every letter over the last three weeks. It seemed as though the Burrow had suddenly become the hub for a lot of activity during the summer – but Merlin only knew what the adults were discussing. If Ron knew, he certainly wasn't telling Harry.

A small bubble of frustration threatened to make its presence known inside Harry once again that summer – wasn't he, of all people, entitled to know what was going on? Oughtn't they to tell him whatever they were doing, if it was, as Harry presumed, something to do in the fight against Voldemort? It had been him, hadn't it, who had faced Voldemort yet again in that dark graveyard? If it weren't for him, Harry, none of them would've known that Voldemort had returned! How was this – isolation, seclusion, abandonment, whatever you termed it – even _fair_?

But even as the feeling boiled up with every successive thought of resentment, Harry clamped down on it, bursting it before it could get a hold over him. It wouldn't do him any good to feel frustrated over such things – not when there was nothing he could do to control it.

 _Pick your battles, Harry. Channel your anger towards those who deserve it most. Like You-Know-Who._

Her words from previous letters rang out loud and clear inside his head, and he successfully shut off that part of his mind where the resentment had escaped from. She was right, as usual: he had to channel his anger and emotion towards the one who was truly responsible. He was sure all of them – the Weasleys, Hermione, and his Professors at Hogwarts (save perhaps for Snape) – had his best interests at heart. If they didn't want him to know something, it must be for a reason.

 _ **Doesn't mean I have to like it, though.**_

 _I never said you should, Harry._ He could almost hear her smirk in the statement.

He sighed quietly, and resumed reading Ron's missive.

' _We can't be leaving you there alone for four weeks – not after last year.'_

He felt a sudden rush of affection for Ron that had nothing to do with a rather rare breeze that yielded to the temptation of Harry's open window, causing the pieces of parchment on his desk to rustle slightly. If anything, he was immensely grateful that Ron had been alongside him for the whole debacle that had taken place last year at Hogwarts. Ron had been there to prop him up when it all seemed too much, had helped him calm down and take a breather when he felt overwhelmed…and most importantly, he had been able to say out loud what Harry had been feeling, on their last day at Hogwarts three weeks ago.

' _He wanted to win, but not at the cost of Harry's loss. He wanted Harry to win, too. And I know Harry wanted him to win as well, but neither of them wanted to sabotage the other.'_

' _We should all be proud that Cassius was our champion – our Hogwarts champion. Make no mistake, the Goblet picked the right choice, because people should know that Cassius…he was a good bloke.'_

' _He was a true Hogwarts champion.'_

And not for the first time that summer, Harry had to steady his resolve before it crumbled, as wave upon wave of memories returned to him: the time he'd spent with Cassius training, laughing and joking around with him, Adrian and Terence, learning spells and charms from each other – and not just for the Tournament, seeking advice from Cassius as one would do from an elder brother…

And then, he remembered Cassius' desperate attempts to save him, Harry, from Peter Pettigrew and Voldemort, when they had first encountered them in the graveyard; his insistence that Harry get out of there immediately; and then…

' _Kill the spare!'_

Harry gave a great shuddering gasp, even as he wrenched himself back into the present. The nightmare that was the aftermath of the third task was still freshly imprinted in his mind – he was quite sure the images from that evening would not be forgotten anytime soon. He looked up to gaze outside his window, onto the hot, dry street that was Privet Drive.

Even as he did so, his vision felt blurry – not because of the heat from the tarmac below, but from a few tears that had filled his eyes, which were now trailing tracks down his cheeks.

 _I'm sorry, Cassius. I'm so sorry._

* * *

It took Harry a few hours to get back to normal. He had missed lunch as a result, not wanting to end up being almost provoked by Uncle Vernon once again, especially in the state he had been in. By the time he felt ready to get back to his usual activities, he heard the front door slamming, and the unmistakeable sounds of the Dursleys' car pulling out of the driveway and heading out towards Magnolia Crescent.

Almost imperceptibly, Harry heaved a small sigh of relief. The Dursleys were usually not very nice people, but this summer, they had taken their unpleasant behaviour to a whole new level. It might have had something to do with the fact that their living room had been destroyed (albeit put back together as well) by Mr Weasley when he had arrived with his Hogwarts-attending sons to pick up Harry for the Quidditch World Cup last summer. Harry was quite certain that Uncle Vernon was still smarting over the entire incident, and seeing as he had not been able to vent his frustration towards Mr Weasley, Harry had become the de facto target for his ire.

Coupled with the fact that they were no longer allowed to use water as freely as they wished to anymore – one of Uncle Vernon's favourite pastimes was to loudly wash his large company car in his driveway, so as to garner the attention of everyone on Privet Drive – it was no wonder that his Uncle was in a constant state of grumpiness, with the vein in his temple reaching dangerous levels with almost disturbing regularity.

Of course, it didn't help that all three Dursleys despised the excessive heat, either.

So yes, Harry was quite glad that the Dursleys had gone out that afternoon. With any luck, they wouldn't be back before dinner that evening, giving him plenty of time to do as he pleased. That being said, his first priority, he thought as he got up from his bed and stretched languidly, was to get a bite to eat.

After wolfing down a few bites of the leftover shepherd's pie, Harry trudged upstairs to his bedroom, locked the door, and sequestered himself at his desk once more. Ron's unfolded and re-folded letter now lay upon the rather sizeable stack of parchment at the corner of his desk. That left the last letter he'd received earlier that morning – the one delivered by the eagle owl, Archibald.

' _Any word from the herbologist?'_

Chuckling slightly, he slit the envelope open, extracted the parchment, and began to read.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _It's always good to hear from you, even though I know you aren't feeling that great right now. I hope you understand that it's not your fault, Harry – he wouldn't want you to blame yourself for what happened. Remember what I told you – channel your anger and emotions towards those who deserve it most. Don't you dare get into a mode of self-pity, alright?_

He couldn't help but grin at this: somehow, Daphne knew exactly what to say to cheer him up – even if she wasn't right next to him.

 _Not much has happened here since my last letter. We've had a number of unexpected guests at home over the last week or so, but Father was able to manage them pretty well. I doubt they'd want to return for another visit though, I didn't think our hospitality was that endearing._

Harry stiffened slightly upon reading this. He had a nasty feeling he knew what she meant by 'unexpected guests'. He knew Voldemort had tried – albeit unsuccessfully – to recruit her father the last time he had been in power, but it seemed as though he hadn't given up. Harry was not worried about Daphne's family: if they had resisted Voldemort the last time round, they wouldn't have any problems in taking care of themselves this time. But if he was already sending Death Eaters to get them…

He shook his head slightly. He needn't worry: Daphne would be fine. And so would her sister, if her next lines were anything to go by…

 _Tori is being a pest, as usual. She's yet to start on her homework, but she refuses to allow me to complete mine either. I've still got my Potions essay to finish – are you done with that? I hope it will be easier than Transfiguration – that was a nightmare._

Harry grimaced as he recalled his attempts at drafting a passable Potions essay for Snape, even though he knew that with the greasy-haired Potions professor, even his best work would not garner more than an 'Acceptable'.

 _I haven't heard from our friend since we met last week. I suppose things have been busy at that end too, although it's never been this long without an update. Have you got anything?_

That's odd, thought Harry, re-reading the lines again. Neither Ron nor Daphne had got any news for the last one week. Was everything alright? They were supposed to have received a check-in every three days – just to make sure that everything was alright. The silence was, therefore, quite unnerving, to say the least.

 _Take care, Harry, and stay safe. I'll see you on the train on September first – I can't wait._

 _Love,_

 _Daphne_

 _P.S. You may end up receiving a number of letters over the next few days from people whom you don't usually correspond with. Trust me on this: they're all safe to open and read through. I think you'll find them quite useful._

Harry stared at the post-script – a first from Daphne in the six or seven letters she'd written to him this summer, and certainly not the usual post-script one would expect to see. People would be writing letters to him? Who? And what for? And what made Daphne think that they would be useful for him, or more importantly, _safe_?

After pondering upon this for a few minutes, and getting nowhere in terms of an answer, he decided to pose the question to Daphne herself. Grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment, he dragged his ink pot closer, dipped his quill in it, and began to write.

 _Dear Daphne,_

 _You know me, I rarely get into that mode. It's usually the self-blaming mode that I sink into – but don't worry, I'm working on that. If anything, I know I'll feel better once we meet. And yes, I can't wait to see you on September first, either._

 _I hope your father didn't have to do anything questionable to your unexpected guests. I know you can take care of yourself, but you can always let me know if you need anything, you know that._

 _Actually, I did finish my Potions essay – that was the first one I decided to work on once I got back. I figured the earlier I get it done, the brighter the holidays would be. Of course, being here isn't exactly a ray of sunshine (we get quite enough of that these days anyway), but I'll survive. Ron's mentioned that I should be getting out of here soon enough, so that's something to look forward to._

 _You know, it's funny, because I just got word that nothing's been heard for the last week either. D'you reckon something's wrong? Maybe we should ask someone to check?_

 _As for those extra letters…what exactly have you done, Daphne? Are you sure they would be safe to open? And who are these people, anyway?_

 _Love,_

 _Harry_

Harry read through the letter once more, just to make sure he wasn't giving away too much. It was quite unlikely that his post was being searched – he didn't think his fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived really warranted that – but one could never be sure. If Ron, of all people, felt that it was necessary to write in code – or some form of code, at least – then he, Harry, needed to ensure that his letters were discrete, yet meaningful.

Satisfied with what he had written, Harry rolled up the parchment, even as he reached over and poked Hedwig awake. His snowy companion gave a disgruntled hoot, and opened a bleary amber eye to glare at him.

'Feeling up for a long journey?'

If owls had eyebrows, he could swear Hedwig had raised one of hers at him, as if to say, yet again, 'Are you kidding?'

Harry grinned as Hedwig opened both eyes, and hopped out of the cage which he had opened for her. As he tied the scroll to her outstretched leg, he said, 'Take this to Daphne, alright? Don't get caught, girl.'

She gave him an understanding hoot, then hopped from his desk to the window, where she opened her wings wide, as though stretching out her sore muscles. Then, with a soft whoosh, she took off, flitted about the trees that scattered the landscape, and vanished from sight.

Harry watched her go, a mingled sense of loneliness and dread coiling around him. Hedwig was the only other living thing at Privet Drive that didn't flinch in his presence, and while he was used to her frequent absences for deliveries and the occasional hunting, her departure this time had a slightly more ominous feel to it. He could only hope that nothing would happen to her.

* * *

With Hedwig absent from Privet Drive, Harry whiled away the next few days in the solitude of his bedroom, or by taking frequent walks in and around Little Whinging. He was careful enough to avoid treading along the routes taken by Dudley and his gang – he knew from experience that if they were bored with their usual bullying and vandalising activities, they tended to revert to their old favourite pastime: Harry Hunting.

He had still not heard anything else from Ron since his last letter. Of course, he hadn't been able to respond to him immediately, but he reckoned Ron would have figured as much after seeing Pig return without a scroll tied to his tiny leg. Maybe he was busy with the move, and hadn't noticed Pig's return at all? Harry tried very hard not to think of the alternative – he didn't think he'd be able to face it if something of that sort had happened.

It was odd, though, how… _quiet_ , everything was. There was no news of Voldemort or his activities in the _Daily Prophet_ ; no mention of strange and unusual occurrences in the Muggle news; nothing about odd disappearances or sudden disasters in the country… Harry didn't understand why Voldemort was choosing to keep a low profile. Was he still not back at his full strength? What was he doing then? Why was he biding his time?

Distracted as he was by these thoughts, he almost collided with someone walking in the opposite direction on the pavement; stumbling slightly, he adjusted his askew glasses and apologised to the person, who had let out a string of colourful words that Harry had only ever heard his Uncle Vernon use when he was annoyed.

'Sorry!' Harry exclaimed, holding out a placating hand. 'Lost track – didn't see – sorry –'

The someone, Harry noticed, turned out to be a rather attractive young woman. She had a pale, heart-shaped face, with blonde hair that fell back in curls around her shoulders. She sported two mismatched earrings, a t-shirt that had the words 'Stare at your own risk' emblazoned upon the front in bright gold lettering, and a pair of ripped jeans. She looked barely older than twenty, judging by her overall appearance.

For some inexplicable reason, the woman almost tripped over her own feet as she righted herself from the near collision with Harry, but was able to regain her footing. She gave herself a once-over, then turned to glare at Harry in mild annoyance.

'Watch where you're going, will you?' she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned her back on Harry, and strode off in the direction she was heading in. Harry watched her go with a bemused expression on his face – not least because the woman kept patting the pockets of her jeans as she walked, as though trying to locate something on her person. Then, after a few moments, he saw her shoulder sag – whether from relief or defeat, he couldn't tell – before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.

The encounter with the woman had made Harry a tad delayed – the Dursleys considered any time after Dudley returned home as 'too late', and while Uncle Vernon's testy mood had eased up after Hedwig's departure, Harry decided not to take any chance in avoiding annoying his uncle and aunt. And so, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his large jeans – Dudley's hand-me-downs – he swivelled on the spot at the far end of Wisteria Walk, and set off back towards number four, Privet Drive.

The evening was, surprisingly, quite cool. A gentle breeze – something which the residents of Little Whinging had been desperate for throughout the day – wafted across the landscape. The sun was slowly sinking to Harry's left, its fading rays casting long shadows of the houses and lamp poles lined along the streets. Those who had chosen to venture outside during the warm and dry evening now savoured their walks home, their moods notably lifted with the advent of the breeze.

As he turned into Magnolia Crescent, Harry walked past the narrow alleyway between the two houses, where he had first clapped eyes upon his godfather, Sirius Black, almost two years ago. He hadn't recognised Sirius then – he had been in his Animagus form – but he considered it to be a significant event, nonetheless. In any case, Sirius' presence had caused him to, albeit by accident, summon the Knight Bus.

Harry wondered where Sirius was right now. His godfather hadn't given him a location of his whereabouts – he rarely did, anyway, out of fear of the letter being intercepted – but quite unusually, Sirius had been more tight-lipped in his letters than he had ever been before. Even his letters during the Triwizard Tournament last year had been more expressive than what he, Harry, had been receiving this summer. Instead of telling Harry what was going on in the wider wizarding world, Sirius seemed to be giving vague and rather unhelpful hints as to what Harry was to be doing.

' _Keep your nose clean, Harry. Don't do anything rash.'_

' _You must make sure that you are safe. Don't do anything to jeopardise that.'_

' _Don't attract too much attention to yourself right now. Stay safe, we'll come and get you soon.'_

But _when_ was soon? How long was he to be stuck here, in Privet Drive, this summer? His frustration, so long kept bottled and in check, threatened to burst out again – how could Dumbledore allow this? How could he have left Harry at Privet Drive, with not a word on what was happening outside, completely cut off from the magical world, for three weeks?

 _Channel your anger, Harry…_

Harry stopped at the corner between Magnolia Crescent and Privet Drive, took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and willed himself to calm down. No point in getting angry now, no use in getting frustrated about this. He'd get his answers when the time would come.

 _Just focus, now…_

He opened his eyes, feeling the vestiges of his annoyance seep out of him as he exhaled slowly. The technique had been taught to him by Daphne through one of her letters, when he'd asked her how he was supposed to 'channel his anger'. So far, it had proved to be a godsend, even if he was having to employ it more frequently these days.

Harry resumed walking once more, barely acknowledging Mrs Figg as the batty, old, cat-loving woman tottered along the opposite pavement, two of her many cats pattering in her wake. He had no desire to be invited over to her place right now, especially when it was this late in the evening. He wouldn't put it past his Uncle and Aunt to berate him for his lateness, even if he had been at Mrs Figg's house.

As the sun finally sank beyond the distant horizon, and the first stars shone in the night sky, Harry turned into the driveway of number four. Noiselessly, he slipped inside the house, shutting the door quietly behind him, and hurried up the stairs. He could hear the television blaring out some jingles from the living room below, which covered the sound of him climbing up to his room.

He was not surprised to see Hedwig's cage empty: he had left it open to allow her to swoop in and rest, but she had still not returned from delivering Daphne's letter. He made his way across the room, cleaning up stray pieces of parchment and quills, moving the odd textbook here and there, finally achieving the goal of a decently tidied room. None of the Dursleys ever deigned to show up in his room – Aunt Petunia seemed to treat it as a place outside of her cleaning territory – but Harry felt he ought to clean it up every now and then.

Hermione's words rang out in his mind as he lobbed a few crunched up pieces of parchment to the dustbin in the far corner: _'A cluttered place means a cluttered mind, Harry!'_

Grinning to himself, and feeling quite proud of the progress he'd made, Harry adjusted the stack of letters on his desk, and looked out of the window –

– just in time to see three owls glide past the now-lit street lamp, in the direction of his bedroom.

Harry instinctively moved out of the way; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the three owls land smoothly – and thankfully, given the effort he'd put in cleaning – on his bed. As he straightened up, he looked outside once more, just to make sure there weren't any more owls in the immediate vicinity, before turning to the three in his room, each of whom had now stuck out their right legs, upon which letters were tied quite securely.

Harry's first observation was that his own Hedwig was not among the owls he now faced – and yet, Archibald was present, ruffling his feathers importantly as he shot a seemingly disdainful look at the other two, slightly more common, barn owls. Without wasting any time, Harry untied the letters from the three owls' legs; the two barn owls gave him soft hoots, and with a whoosh, took off from the bed and swooped out into the night. Archibald, however, stayed back – he hopped over to the edge of Harry's desk as the latter sat down in his chair, rifling through the envelopes he'd just received.

The one from Archibald was obviously from Daphne – he recognised the curved handwriting in green ink, just the way her previous letters to him had been. The others, however, were complete unknowns – neither of them had a return name or address on the back; instead, they merely sported his name, written in black ink and unfamiliar handwriting. Who could these be from? Were they dangerous – sent by some ambitious Death Eaters in order to kill him? Or were they harmless jokes sent by anonymous people?

As his gaze shifted from the unknown envelopes to Daphne's, the words from her last letter sprang to the forefront of his mind:

 _You may end up receiving a number of letters over the next few days from people whom you don't usually correspond with. Trust me on this: they're all safe to open and read through. I think you'll find them quite useful._

Were these them, then? The letters from 'people he usually didn't correspond with'? Could they truly be trusted not to contain anything dangerous that could potentially harm him, or the Dursleys (although the latter wouldn't have been too bad an idea)? Could he, in fact, trust Daphne enough to open these letters without any fear?

Deciding that he would deal with the unknown ones in a bit – who knows what they could contain – he opened Daphne's letter first. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out the parchment and, with Archibald's unblinking gaze upon him, began to read.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I'm sending this with Archibald because Hedwig stands out, and they know she belongs to you, they'll trace her back to you quite easily. I asked her to leave as soon as she came, and to take a long detour. She should be back soon._

 _We got another visit from Father's friends, and he refused immediately. I suppose it's only a matter of time before they send the people in charge to convince him – but I don't think they'd do it unless things go public. Father doesn't seem to be too worried about it._

 _We've decided to head to Lyon for the rest of the summer – Mother has been desperate for a holiday abroad since our second year, and I think even Father needed a break from his work and the constant house-calls. We're leaving tomorrow, Harry, and…I don't think I can send anything to you until we're back in Britain._

Harry thought the ink seemed slightly splotched here – maybe she had blotted her quill a bit too much.

 _I wish there was a way to speak to you, Harry, but Father has insisted that there be no owls or any communication while we're there. I don't like the forced confinement, but I didn't want to argue with him. In any case, I've asked Archibald to wait for a reply from you – I hope you can send something back with him._

 _I will miss you, Harry. I can't wait to see you on the train – or sooner, if possible. Take care, and stay safe._

 _Love,_

 _Daphne_

 _P.S. The two barn owls carry those letters I had told you about in my previous letters. They're perfectly safe to open, and definitely useful._

Harry stared at the letter, his eyes moving across the written words again, but not really taking them in. His mind seemed to have forgotten all other coherent thoughts, instead focusing on one fact: Daphne was going to be unreachable for the next six weeks.

He had not thought about this at all, had not considered this to be a possibility. Daphne's letters had seemed to be a constant over the last three weeks – ever since his first day back at Privet Drive, when he had almost jumped in shock at the appearance of the regal looking eagle owl outside his window. Her letters were a source of comfort to him, a break from the monotony of Ron's missives and Sirius' dreary and vague replies. Almost telepathically, she could cheer him up when he felt guilty and down about Cassius' death, or get him to focus and calm down when he got angry at Dumbledore and the rest of the wizarding world. But now, the prospect of her not being around seemed to strike Harry at the most vulnerable place in his heart.

 _Six weeks_ …how was he going to survive six weeks without her?

Harry didn't know what to think – indeed, he had no idea what to do. He sat there at his desk, unmoving, gazing with a blank expression outside his window. Six weeks…no contact for six weeks…

Archibald's hoot brought him back from his self-created oblivion. He stared right back at the eagle owl, which inclined its head and blinked its large eyes once. The message was clear: _get on with it._

With some effort, Harry pulled himself out of his thoughts, and focused on the matter at hand. Archibald was waiting for him to compose a response – a reply for Daphne. His last letter to her this summer. He wasn't going to let this chance pass by him.

He mentally shook himself, pulled out his quill, dipped it in an open bottle of ink, and began writing on a fresh piece of parchment that he'd extracted from another pile on his desk.

 _Dear Daphne,_

 _I will admit, your letter came as quite a surprise for me – I honestly don't know how I'm going to get past these six weeks without any letter or communication from you. I suppose the only consolation I can get is that you will be safe – I doubt there would be many house-calls while you are in Lyon._

 _Thank you for Hedwig, though – as smart as she is, it's reassuring to know that she's got someone else looking out for her. I think she feels the same way._

 _I can't wait to see you either – hopefully I can find a way to meet you during this summer. If not, I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express. Please take care of yourself, and Astoria._

 _Love,_

 _Harry_

 _P.S. As for those other letters…well, if you're sure, I'll go ahead and open them._

Harry knew it sounded dreary, maybe even meek, but what choice did he have? He had no avenue for contesting her father's decision to take a family vacation – it was a holiday, after all – just because he didn't like it. They were right, in any case: Britain was no longer as safe as it had been for those who stood against Voldemort, and if some people had already received house-calls…

For one wild moment, Harry wondered why he hadn't received any visits from the Death Eaters, or even Voldemort himself. He peered out of the window, glancing up and down Privet Drive as much as he could from his restricted vantage point. It appeared to be completely deserted – indeed, even the brief breeze that had blown that way appeared to have died down, leaving everyone scrambling for the cool shade of their homes.

 _You're being paranoid. Voldemort isn't going to come banging on your front door._

And for some reason, he knew that to be true. A direct approach just didn't seem to be Voldemort's style. Harry couldn't explain how he knew this, only that it seemed to be the most appropriate, and likely, explanation.

In any case, the Greengrass family had been approached, and they had rebuked the offers made by Voldemort and his henchmen. That would have made them prime targets for Voldemort – anyone who didn't stand with him was against him. With that in mind, Mr Greengrass' decision to take a vacation seemed like a wise decision.

Then again, that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially if it meant six weeks of silence from Daphne's end.

With a sigh, Harry rolled up the parchment, then turned to tie it around Archibald's outstretched leg. The regal owl gave a hoot, and a small jerk of its head that looked like a bow, then hopped onto the windowsill, stretched its wings, and took off into the darkness. Harry watched him go, trying not to think about the fact that that was his last letter to Daphne for the rest of the summer.

His eyes dropped to his desk, and spotted the two unknown envelopes, sitting there innocently, and with his name printed upon each of them in black ink. Daphne had assured him that these would be fine – he had anyway written to her that he would open them, but ought he to take a chance? Or could it wait until he had an adult, qualified wizard around him – maybe once he was with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys?

 _They're perfectly safe to open, and definitely useful._

His melancholy feeling that had arisen on reading Daphne's letter, and which had subsisted up till that point, was now replaced by a thrill of apprehension mixed with fear. Thoughts of _'Don't do this!'_ and _'What's wrong with you?'_ flitted in and out of his mind as he reached for the nearest envelope.

It was different – Harry had never come across this kind of parchment, least of all for an envelope. It seemed…sleeker, thinner – of a richer quality than what he was used to. Apart from this distinctive characteristic, its overall appearance was unassuming, and gave nothing away. There was no return address, no signature…nothing. Just his name, scrawled across the front of the envelope in block letters and in black ink.

Ignoring the discouraging thoughts and feelings that his mind was now full of, Harry turned the envelope in his hand, opened it, and pulled out the parchment from within.

* * *

 _To be continued…_

* * *

 **AN Update (May 11, 2018): Story title changed based on recommendation from White Squirrel – thank you!**


	3. Helping Hands

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 2: Helping Hands**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

 **Okay, that's a lie – I struggled with this chapter: my muse had to be coaxed into producing something plot-worthy and coherent. I hope it's decent enough, however, and I really hope you like it.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter. Also, thanks to White Squirrel for his suggestion of the story title.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _His melancholy feeling that had arisen on reading Daphne's letter, and which had subsisted up till that point, was now replaced by a thrill of apprehension mixed with fear. Thoughts of 'Don't do this!' and 'What's wrong with you?' flitted in and out of his mind as he reached for the nearest envelope._

 _It was different – Harry had never come across this kind of parchment, least of all for an envelope. It seemed…sleeker, thinner – of a richer quality than what he was used to. Apart from this distinctive characteristic, its overall appearance was unassuming, and gave nothing away. There was no return address, no signature…nothing. Just his name, scrawled across the front of the envelope in block letters and in black ink._

 _Ignoring the discouraging thoughts and feelings that his mind was now full of, Harry turned the envelope in his hand, opened it, and pulled out the parchment from within._

* * *

Harry stared at the parchment.

 _What on earth…_

The secretive nature of the envelope had caused him to think of pranks, jokes, or something even more sinister. Daphne's reassuring words about the contents of the letters had not achieved the desired effect of assuaging his fear and apprehension. And yet…

He had not expected this.

It was a single piece of parchment, with exactly fifty-one words written upon it with the same ink as the one used for his name on the face of the envelope. The handwriting was flowing – neat and curved – but unfamiliar. He had no idea who had sent this to him – there was no signature at the bottom.

 _Extispex – the Entrails Expelling Curse. Causes the intestines to be expelled from the body, resulting in internal and external bleeding, and extreme pain for the victim._

 _No counter-curse exists – victim must be hit with the Full Body Bind Curse (or a suitable variation) within twelve seconds of the curse being cast._

Harry had to re-read the parchment at least three times before he was able to comprehend the meaning of the words. And as soon as he had done so, his first question was – why?

Why did this letter contain a description of what appeared to be an extremely dangerous curse? Why had that person not signed off on the letter, instead choosing to remain anonymous? And, more importantly, why had they sent it to him?

Even as these questions and thoughts bounced around in his mind, his recently developed habit of thinking things through, of questioning everything that happened around him, began to shine through.

Was this a curse that people were planning to use on him, and someone had decided to warn him in advance? Or were there other intended targets? If that was true, who were they? And who had decided to play the role of the good Samaritan, in warning him?

His eyes roved the parchment once more, and he caught sight of three letters, scripted at the bottom of the page in miniscule writing, as though the sender had wished to include them, but did not want them to be seen.

 _M.E.B._

Harry recognised them as being initials, although he didn't have the foggiest idea as to whose they were. He was, however, sure of one thing, at least: with the sender having signed off, albeit in an obscure manner, he or she was trying to help Harry – by warning him of the existence of such a spell.

But who would use such a spell? Who could possibly be so cruel, so vile, to cast a curse with the intent of expelling their victim's intestines, and causing them to die in, Harry assumed, the most gruesome and painful way imaginable?

And then, not for the first time, the answer came to him – so simple, so obvious, he wondered how he could not have seen it before.

 _Death Eaters…_

Of course, he thought to himself. Who else would deign to use this kind of a curse, but someone with an affinity for the Dark Arts? Harry could think of no one except Lord Voldemort and his followers who could possibly have this curse in their magical arsenal.

In fact, it was more likely than not that Voldemort himself had invented this spell, to torture and kill his victims.

Harry shuddered involuntarily as he perused the description again. Reading about it was quite disturbing in itself – he could not imagine this actually being used on someone. Even thinking about it made him feel nauseous.

As he set the parchment to one side, the light from his desk lamp fell upon the tiny initials once again – M.E.B. He did not know anyone with such a name, much less someone who, it seemed, had links to the Death Eaters, or at least access to their library of spells and curses. With a token effort, he racked his brains, trying to recall if he'd encountered anyone with these initials during his four plus years in the magical world, but his mind drew a blank. For all he knew, it could be one of Dumbledore's many allies, or even – and he grimaced as he thought of this – an admirer of his from the wider wizarding world, concerned about his well-being and health following the re-birth of Lord Voldemort.

Harry mentally shook his head – there was no point in wondering about this right now. He would have asked Daphne about this almost at once, but she was probably on her way to France, and he had no hope or means of contacting her for the next six weeks.

After this letter joined the ever-growing pile of parchment at the corner of his desk, Harry turned to the last remaining envelope for that evening. He picked it up, noticing that unlike the previous one, it was of a similar quality and stock as what he generally used for his correspondence. This too, was addressed to him in black ink, but it was not in block letters. Indeed, it seemed to have been written quite hurriedly, as though the sender did not have enough time.

Fingers trembling slightly, he pulled out the parchment, and began to read. It was not a spell, but it wasn't a letter, either.

 _Thank you so much for what you did in June. I promise to help you in every way I can. If you need to reach me, ask Daphne – she will know._

 _S.M._

If Harry had been unsure of the first letter with the spell, the second missive had left him feeling utterly bewildered: who on earth was this? What did they know of what happened in June? He had only described the events of that night to Professor Dumbledore, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, and Daphne, and none of them had 'S.M.' as their initials.

' _If you need to reach me, ask Daphne…'_

So, Daphne had told someone about it – who though? And how much could it have impacted that person that he, Harry, deserved an expression of gratitude, and a willingness to help, from him or her? Yet…why would they wish to keep their identity anonymous? Wouldn't it have been simpler, and a lot easier, to reveal themselves, rather than maintain that level of secrecy?

His confusion was mingled with a tiny sense of curiosity at Daphne's assurance that these letters would prove to be useful for him. Admittedly, he could see the potential value of the first letter: he now knew what to do in case that horrible curse was ever cast on someone, or even himself; but the second one stumped him: while he had gained an ally in the imminent resistance against Voldemort, it was undermined by the anonymity of the sender. What was the point in offering help if you weren't going to reveal who you were?

Harry shook his head in frustration, but placed the letter from 'S.M.' on his parchment pile all the same. Just another question to bombard Daphne with when they would finally meet on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September.

He sighed, gazing out of the window once more: the sky was now dotted with twinkling stars, and the crescent moon flitted in and out of the occasional cloud that drifted past. Privet Drive below was illuminated by the bright street lamps, which cast shadows as people and cars passed by. Overall, it seemed like a normal summer evening.

And yet, with the knowledge that Daphne wouldn't be reachable for the rest of the summer, it felt anything but normal for Harry.

* * *

The following week at Privet Drive seemed to crawl by for Harry.

He had thought, on the first day of that week, that he could manage the summer without any correspondence from Daphne. They had been writing to each other for only three weeks, after all: surely that was too short a time to get used to something. After all, he'd gone almost five weeks during the summer after his first year without any contact from his best friends – six weeks without a friend who he'd just began writing to should be easy.

 _Just a friend?_

 _ **Oh, shut up.**_

How very wrong he had been.

Harry had barely lasted half a day on the first day before succumbing to complete boredom in his bedroom. Even his Transfiguration essay had not been interesting or challenging enough to distract him from his thoughts about the blonde Slytherin girl; after writing the first two paragraphs, he gave it up as a bad job, half-heartedly resolving to finish it later – if he ever got the mood. Try as he might, he could not stop thinking about her.

 _Yeah, there's no way she's just a friend for you._

Harry didn't bother arguing with that thought – it was correct, after all. Ever since their dance at the Yule Ball the previous Christmas, their relationship had become something more than just a simple friendship. They had not discussed it, of course – they had only spoken to each other a handful of times – but he was sure of it, and he knew that she thought so, too.

Were they going out, though? Harry did not know. Naturally, he had had no prior experience in the matter – Seamus' gleeful retelling of his exploits in the Gryffindor boys' dormitories did not count – so he wasn't aware of this fact. He had obviously not asked her about it, and he knew that, even with his non-existent dating record, starting off his first ever conversation with her on the subject of dating was definitely not the best approach.

All in all, they were certainly not friends, but they weren't dating either. They were just…somewhere in between.

Ought he to talk about this with her, though? The thought crossed his mind several times as he lolled around in his room between mealtimes, or as he traversed his usual walking routes in the suburb of Little Whinging. Was it worth broaching the subject with her? Was _she_ worth it?

 _Of course she is._

The rejoinder from the voice in his head was almost instantaneous, yet he wondered if it was just the voice trying to convince him of something that wasn't set in stone. Even if he did raise the topic with her, where was the guarantee that she would listen to him? That she would even accept his point of view?

 _Do you even have a point of view?_

 _ **Err…**_

Harry had to concede the point – he didn't have a point of view in that discussion. What would he say to her – rather, what did he _want_ to say to her? He liked her, yes; he knew she liked him too, but…was it the right time? With Voldemort back, was it worth the risk of dating her – she would be specifically targeted by Death Eaters for going out with him, the Boy Who Lived. Plus, a Slytherin dating a Gryffindor at Hogwarts? It would cause an uproar. Wasn't that the reason why she didn't go with him to the Yule Ball in the first place?

 _You did dance with her in the end, didn't you?_

 _ **Yes, but that was with Adrian's help. No one else knows about that.**_

 _How does it matter what others think?_

 _ **It shouldn't, I know…**_ He could feel this argument crumbling already.

 _And she's already in danger because of her father refusing to assist the Death Eaters. How would dating you make any difference?_

 _ **It's like painting a target on her back! At least if we aren't together, she can stay neutral…pretend that nothing exists…**_

 _Would that help you? Is that what you want?_

 _ **No, of course not!**_

 _Then why would you deny that for yourself?_

Harry had no answer to provide for the last question. His stubborn streak had reared its head, and was refusing to budge.

 _You'll never know unless you talk to her._

Harry nodded to the empty room. He had to speak to Daphne about this, but not as soon as he met her on the train. He'd give it some time – they had the whole year, after all.

With this discussion having taken place, and subsequently set aside for another day, Harry's unoccupied mind began brooding over other issues: namely, the lack of news from Sirius and Ron.

Sirius' letters were becoming a bit more distant, irregular, and surprisingly full of advice. The last one, however, was something that Harry neither wanted, nor looked forward to: Sirius had resorted to repeating his earlier guidance, only that they were in different words. Harry found it a bit annoying, not to mention hypocritical, that Sirius, of all people, was warning him not to take risks, 'keep his nose clean', and 'not attract too much trouble'. It was to an extent, however, disconcerting: from what he knew of his godfather, he was rarely this solemn and cautious.

Even Ron had become rather vague in his letters – a marked departure from his earlier attempts at coding information. While he continued to drop hints about what was going on wherever he was – presumably that dingy place in Islington – there was no other mention of any discussions or plans made by Dumbledore, Mr and Mrs Weasley, or anyone else, regarding the fight against Voldemort.

Oddly enough, the letters from Sirius and Ron were being delivered by non-descript brown owls, which, to Harry's surprise, stayed with him until he had penned a response for them to take back. He had attempted to use Hedwig once – she had returned a day after Archibald's departure with his last letter to Daphne – but she could not go; Harry had watched her take off from his bedroom window, reach the borders of Little Whinging, which was as far as he could see, and then swivel around to return to him. He couldn't explain it, and, apart from a doleful hoot, she could not, either.

The back and forth exchange of letters using these brown owls at least ensured that his correspondence was on an almost daily basis. Despite the lack of news, and the excessive cautious advice, the regularity was welcomed by Harry: if anything, he was sure to hear from either Sirius or Ron on any given day. It was a comforting thought.

Harry had also received a couple of letters from Hermione during that week. Both of them had been delivered by the brown owls along with Ron's letters, confirming Harry's belief that the two of them were together, in the same house. Hermione had, admittedly, written about their homework and her study plans for their O.W.L.s ( _'I should have started studying two months ago!'_ ), but even she hadn't mentioned anything else…anything of note, at least.

The fact that they were together, even though it wasn't at the Burrow, caused a flare of jealousy and anger to bubble up inside Harry. Ron's promise to get him out of Privet Drive seemed like an age ago; something from an alternate, impossible reality. He'd been stuck here with his Muggle relatives for four solid weeks, without a shred of news on the fight against Voldemort – was this his just reward for battling the said Dark wizard at that graveyard that night? Was it fair that he, who had been witness to his schoolmate's horrific, cold-blooded murder, was forced to be cut off from the wizarding world? Shouldn't he be more involved in the resistance – if there even was one? Wasn't it his right?

And like an avalanche, these thoughts came gushing forth, out from behind a dam he had so carefully constructed over the summer. What was Dumbledore doing? Why hadn't he bothered to check up on Harry all this while, instead leaving it to his friends and godfather, who seemed to have been subject to a modified gag order? Why wasn't Dumbledore getting Harry involved too? Was he not capable enough – had he not proved himself to be skilled enough to battle Voldemort and survive, _again_?

And what on earth was the Ministry of Magic doing? Cornelius Fudge's point-blank refusal to accept Voldemort's return was mind-boggling – the equivalent of an ostrich sticking its head in the sand – but there was only so much stupidity that one could display, wasn't there? Why hadn't the Minister realised it yet, hadn't connected the dots about the strange occurrences over the last twelve months to arrive at the simple, albeit frightening, conclusion?

More than once in the beginning of that summer, Harry had been tempted to simply send an owl to the _Daily Prophet_ and Fudge himself, just to point out that Voldemort had returned. It had been Daphne who had convinced him otherwise, telling him that there was no point. With the Minister effectively in Lucius Malfoy's pocket, there was no way the former would give Harry's letter the time of the day. And despite Rita Skeeter's capture by Hermione at the end of last year, the _Daily Prophet_ was building on the groundwork set by their former employee in elaborating Harry's questionable sanity, and frequent delusions of his mind. Daphne had pointed out all their snide references and remarks about him in their more recent issues, and had also explained to him why he ought not to react to them immediately.

 _An immediate reaction and denial,_ wrote Daphne, _will only spark a war of words between you, the Prophet, and the Ministry. With the government refusing to believe you, and leaning heavily on the newspaper to convince the general populace of this notion, your protests are unlikely to be heard. It will just be made out as another ploy to seek attention._

 _Give it some time – they are bound to make a mistake. Once that happens, we can make our move._

Remembering those last words of her letter caused him to shiver slightly – partly in fear of what Daphne could do when she was riled up, and partly because he missed her a lot.

While he had grudgingly agreed to Daphne's reasoning, he was not used to showing restraint in such situations. It was clear, though, that his initial response of confronting the Prophet and the Ministry head-on was a very Gryffindor thing to do – bold, yet reckless – while Daphne's option of waiting to strike was intelligent, cunning, and at very least, quite sneaky. In short, the Slytherin way of doing things.

Everything said and done, as the week progressed, the feelings of frustration and, to a lesser extent, abandonment, continued to swirl inside Harry. Fortunately, he was able to control them using the calming techniques taught to him by Daphne, although there were instances where he feared being provoked and consequently losing his self-control. He took to longer walks in and around Little Whinging, sometimes even crossing into the neighbouring borough; but he always made sure to return before Dudley did.

More anonymous letters arrived for Harry during that week – some of them signed off with only their initials, while others were completely blank. All of them contained short descriptions of what Harry was sure were obscure hexes, jinxes, curses, along with their applicable counter-curses or suggestions on remedial measures to be taken. They ranged from the relatively harmless – causing nothing more than temporary pain and disfiguring, to the outright horrible, which were on levels similar to that of the Entrails Expelling Curse. Indeed, some of them made the Entrails Curse appear mild, by comparison.

Harry had attempted to discern the identity of some of the senders, but the initials did not match to anyone he personally knew. He gave it up in the end, instead choosing to focus on writing the spells and their counters in a separate book, enabling easy maintenance and access. He didn't fancy carrying a huge stack of parchment everywhere he went. As for the senders, he planned to question Daphne about it on the train to school in September.

For what it was worth, Harry felt quite comforted by the show of support from the anonymous senders – all of them appeared quite determined to help him in the upcoming fight against Voldemort, by sharing inside information and secrets about his spells and curses. Not all of them were offensive: some of them were, in fact, concerning wards and protective enchantments that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were probably using for their hideouts. It gave him hope that there was, however small, a possibility of winning.

He had had an inkling that it would boil down to him against Voldemort in the end, despite all that was said and done by others. Voldemort had chosen to come after him that fateful Halloween night in nineteen eighty-one: his parents had sacrificed their lives trying to protect him. He was Voldemort's prime target – a nemesis of sorts, one who the Dark wizard had tried very hard to eliminate several times, in person, without any aid.

' _You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him.'_

And on some level, Harry had come to accept that fact – the cold truth that in the end, he would face off against Voldemort, on his own; and no one would protect him – no one should, he thought fiercely – and at that terrifying finale, there would be only one winner.

Unbidden, unplanned, the words formed in Harry's mind:

 _Neither of us can survive… One of us must die…_

* * *

By the end of that particular week, Harry had almost reached the end of his tether. Morbid thoughts about his seemingly apparent final confrontation with Voldemort aside, his missives from Ron, Hermione, and Sirius had seemed to dim in details and value. Indeed, Ron had even ended up stating the one line Harry had unconsciously dreaded hearing since the summer had begun:

' _We've been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray…'_

His frustration, so often at its peak over the last few days, wilted, only to be replaced by uncertainty and a dull feeling of hopelessness. Were they ever going to share anything that he wanted to hear? Were they doing anything to help him get out of Privet Drive?

And just like that, the hopelessness leaked away, and his frustration, coupled with a righteous sense of injustice, built up inside him once more…

Try as much as he did to bring his fluctuating emotions under control, even Daphne's calming exercises were proving to be repetitive, monotonous, and ultimately futile. The feelings affected his sleep: where he was initially having nightmares about the graveyard and Cassius' murder, he was now having dreams of long, dark corridors, ending with dead ends and locked doors. He supposed the dreams had something to do with his trapped feelings, but he had never seen or been to such places in real life. To add to the discomfort, the scar on his forehead began prickling uncomfortably, with its intensity increasing during those corridor dreams. He knew something was amiss, and he ought to try and connect the dots – but his mind simply refused to work in his favour.

With the lack of a good night's sleep, his temper was short, and his mood irritable, and it was with a great deal of effort that he stopped himself from reacting to Uncle Vernon's frequent glowers and snide remarks directed at him. Once or twice, he had almost raised his wand on his cousin Dudley, but had, in the last moment, turned his back and walked away. No point in triggering a violation of the underage magic outside Hogwarts rule by cursing his cousin, however tempting it seemed to him.

Harry, therefore, felt quite relieved when, on the Saturday before his birthday, Uncle Vernon came up to his room to inform him that they were going out.

'Sorry?' asked Harry, certain that he had misheard him the first time. The Dursleys had never taken him out, not if they could help it.

Uncle Vernon glared at him, his small eyes roving over the surprisingly clean room for a moment. Harry knew his Uncle had expected him to be staying in an extremely dirty room.

'Your Aunt, Dudley, and I are going out,' he ground out finally. Harry saw the vein in his Uncle's temple pulsating slightly again: he did not like repeating things, especially to his nephew. Harry felt a sort of savage pleasure rise up within him, one which he looked to clamp down almost immediately.

'Right,' said Harry.

'We don't expect to be back for dinner.'

'Okay.'

'Your Aunt has left you something to eat. You are to eat that, and not steal anything from the fridge.'

'Okay.'

'You are not to leave the house, or call anyone else here.'

'Alright.'

'Don't blow up the house, or there'll be trouble, boy.'

'I'll try not to.'

Harry allowed a slight ghost of a smirk to flit across his face at Uncle Vernon's furious glare. He could also note, with some satisfaction, a hint of doubt in those tiny eyes at the lack of argument he had presented to the previous instructions.

 _Harry…_ He could hear Daphne's voice chiding him gently, but it didn't sound disapproving.

Uncle Vernon grunted, then turned around and stomped downstairs, shutting the door to Harry's room behind him. Harry stared at the door for a few minutes, then resumed his vigil of looking up at the ceiling, which he'd been doing for the last half hour. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of the Dursleys' car pulling out of the driveway, the sound of its tires and engine fading as it turned off Privet Drive.

Harry let out a small breath which he didn't realise he'd been holding. A dimmed sense of relief swept over him – it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and if the Dursleys were not returning for dinner, he would have at least six hours to himself. The thought was comforting for a while, but it was quashed by the ever-present feeling of bleakness: what was he going to do for six hours anyway?

It is a strange thing, the feeling that nothing right is ever going to happen. It induces lethargy and laziness – it causes one to feel exhausted and drained even without doing any activity of note. It is an oppressive emotion, ensuring that one can experience nothing else…must not experience anything else…

Harry closed his eyes, succumbing to the unseen pressure – he was tired, hungry, drained…

' _Kill the spare!'_

 _A wand was raised and swished…_

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

 _A flash of blinding green light, a loud rushing sound…_

 _And then, he was consumed by darkness…_

 _He was walking along a dark corridor, the same corridor he had dreamt of before…and there was the door at the end of it, the door that was always locked, but now, he knew it would open for him…it had to open…_

 _He raised his wand, and whispered, 'Alohomora.'_

 _A sense of triumph stole over him as the lock clicked; he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped over the threshold…_

 _The lock clicked, and the door swung open…_

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing hard through his nose. The clicking of the lock had not been only in his dream – _but had come from the front door of number four_.

He slipped out of his bed as quickly as he could, grabbing his wand from his desk and moving to the door of his room. Uncle Vernon had not deigned to lock him in, which was, Harry thought initially, a good thing: he didn't fancy alerting the intruders that there was somebody in the house, someone who could do magic.

Sweat dripped down from his brow as he crossed the threshold of his room and crept towards the stairs leading down to the floor below. The sky outside was beginning to darken – he had been asleep for a good while, it seemed – and the light from the setting sun filtered in the windows of the house, casting long shadows along the walls and floors.

Harry reached the top of the stairs and peered over the bannister and down onto the small passage leading to the living room and the kitchen below. There was no one in sight, but the shadows of at least three people could be seen, flitting in and about the kitchen. Then, he heard the sounds of cutlery being moved around, and an unfamiliar, feminine voice floated upstairs.

'Very clean, these Muggles, aren't they? My house looks like a right mess compared to this.'

 _Muggles…_

These people were wizards and witches! Harry's heart pounded against his ribs as he stood, frozen in place at the revelation. Magical people had broken into his Uncle and Aunt's place – but who were they? Had they come for him – to take him? Were they Death Eaters, sent by Voldemort to kidnap him?

In the two seconds it took for him to contemplate these questions, another, much more familiar, female voice spoke.

'Why are we in the kitchen, anyway? We should be looking for Harry.'

Harry almost dropped his wand in shock. _Hermione_ , here in Privet Drive?

'Quite right,' said a third, male voice – but this was familiar too.

 _Mr Weasley?_

And before he could even move from his place on the landing, the owners of the three voices stepped out of the kitchen; one of them had illuminated their wand tip, which was raised above their heads, catching Harry in its full, slightly bright glare.

' _Harry!'_

The delighted exclamation had come from Hermione, who, before anyone else could do anything, had bounded up the staircase and had launched herself at him in a tight hug. Harry had barely had enough time to adjust his position so that he wasn't knocked over by the force of their collision.

'Oh Harry, it's so good to see you! Are you alright? Have you been eating? I'm sorry about our letters, we honestly couldn't tell you anything more, we weren't allowed –'

To Harry's relief, he was saved from Hermione's ramblings by Mr Weasley, who had come up behind them and had gently tugged Hermione away. A little breathless, Hermione stepped back, beaming at Harry with obvious happiness at seeing her best friend after four weeks.

'How are you, Harry?' asked Mr Weasley, holding out his hand and shaking Harry's.

'Erm –'

Harry looked between the two of them, a feeling of slight uncertainty creeping inside him; the third woman was yet to show herself. Was this a joke? He had still not ruled out this being an elaborate plan by the Death Eaters to kidnap him – impersonating known people and taking him away to some secret location. How was he to be sure that these were, in fact, Hermione Granger and Mr Arthur Weasley?

'Are you alright, Harry?' asked Hermione concernedly.

'Yeah, I mean…' he hesitated, 'this isn't a joke, right? I mean, you are, you?'

Hermione looked bewildered, but Mr Weasley smiled knowingly.

'Ask me a question, Harry, the answer to which only I would know.'

Harry racked his brains to remember something that he and Mr Weasley would have spoken about.

'What did you ask me to swear to you on the day I left for Hogwarts for my third year, when we were at platform nine and three-quarters?'

For a moment, Mr Weasley looked a bit confused, but then his eyes brightened with recognition. 'I asked you to swear that you wouldn't go looking for Sirius Black.'

Harry nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief. He had told Ron and Hermione about Mr Weasley's warning later that day, but it had never been explicitly mentioned that he had sworn not to go looking for Sirius that year. Harry supposed it was a minor detail, but admittedly, no one else had been around them at that time.

'Are we done, then?' called the other woman from down below. 'We should really get a move on, Arthur.'

'Right you are, Tonks,' replied Mr Weasley, checking his watch. 'She's right,' he said to Harry and Hermione, 'we don't have much time –'

'What's going on, Mr Weasley?' asked Harry. Mr Weasley shook his head.

'We're getting you out of here. I'll give you the details later,' he added, as Harry made to ask another question. 'Once we get to a more secure location.'

Harry closed his mouth, but thought that was a bit odd – if Privet Drive wasn't a secure location for information, how could it be a secure one for him to be living there? Especially when, given his theory, he was going to have to face Voldemort.

'We've got about ten minutes before we're supposed to leave. You'd best get your things packed, Harry.'

He nodded, and turned back to his room. He noticed Hermione following him, while the creak of the stairs told him that Mr Weasley had gone back to that Tonks woman. He waited until Hermione joined him inside the room, then shut the door and turned to her.

'What's this about, Hermione? What are you doing here?'

Hermione, who'd been looking around his room with an expression of curiosity mingled with annoyance, jumped at the question.

'Dumbledore's having you moved to headquarters,' she said.

'Headquarters?'

'Of the Order,' said Hermione. 'Mr Weasley's right, Harry, we can't explain much here, it's not safe.'

'Hermione, I've been perfectly safe here for the last four weeks,' he retorted, and he couldn't help the cold resentment from creeping into his tone. 'I'm pretty sure any information that's shared here would be safe as well.'

Hermione looked at him. She seemed…uncertain.

'You're right,' she said, after a few moments of silence. 'That makes logical sense, of course.'

Harry chose not to gloat over the fact that, for once, he had trumped her in logical reasoning. Instead, he chose to wait for her explanation. Hermione, for her part, took her time – she looked around the room, from the slightly rumpled bed to the neatly arranged desk; from Hedwig's case where the snowy owl was perched and secured, to his Hogwarts trunk in the side of the room.

Finally, she sighed softly, and turned to him. 'We should start packing, in any case. Mr Weasley and Tonks wouldn't want to be late.'

Harry nodded, even as he moved to his wardrobe and began gathering his clothes, while Hermione started on his desk.

'The Order of the Phoenix,' said Hermione, 'is a secret society founded by Dumbledore. It's made up of people who fought against You-Know-Who the last time he had power.'

Harry crossed the room to deposit a pile of his socks and trousers in his trunk, all the while listening to Hermione's explanation.

'They've been having meetings since the start of the summer holidays. Quite a few people are in it – Ron and I reckon we've seen about twenty people, but there are definitely more.'

'Where is this headquarters place?' interjected Harry. 'The Burrow?'

'No, the Burrow is too well-known a place,' replied Hermione, now stacking his ink bottles inside his trunk in a manner so that they wouldn't crack and leak. 'They used to meet there, yes, but they've moved to the new place now –'

'The one in Islington, right?'

'Yes,' said Hermione. 'That's where we're going now.'

'What's the Order doing, then?' His robes joined his socks and trousers.

'We're not really sure,' said Hermione nervously. 'They don't let us in on their meetings, you see, they think we're not of age yet.'

Harry snorted under his breath. Not of _age_ – when had that ever stopped Voldemort or the Death Eaters from doing what they wanted to do?

'But we do have a general idea,' she continued. 'We know some of them are following Death Eaters – they call it Operation Tag a DE – while others are working on recruiting more people to the Order –'

'That's what – Operation Recruit, is it?' said Harry sarcastically.

'No, it's Operation Rebirth, actually. I think it ties in rather well, given how a phoenix is reborn from the ashes after it burns –'

'Hermione –'

'Oh right, sorry,' she said hastily. 'Some others are standing guard over something – they keep talking about guard duty.'

They had almost finished packing by now. The only things left were a few piles of clothes, Hedwig's cage, and the stack of letters on his desk. Hermione, rather tactfully, had chosen not to touch them, instead leaving it for Harry to pack them in his trunk.

'Guard duty?' queried Harry, as the letters were placed inside the trunk. 'What are they guarding?'

'I'm not sure,' said Hermione with a shrug. 'They've been the most secretive about that – no one's giving away much.'

'But…if you're not at the meetings, how do you –'

'– know all of this?' finished Hermione. 'Fred and George – they've invented Extendable Ears. That's allowed us to listen in on some of their meetings, at least before Mrs Weasley found out about them and almost binned the whole lot.'

Harry winced inwardly. He vividly recalled Mrs Weasley's fury at Fred and George's various inventions.

'So what have you been up to?' he asked. 'I thought you said you'd been busy.' Once again, he could not help the accusatory tone of his voice; it was hard to do so, especially when he felt he could have been there too, helping them in whatever they were doing.

'We have,' said Hermione. 'We've been cleaning the house – it's been uninhabited for ages, and there's all sorts of stuff breeding in it.'

On second thoughts, if it was cleaning, maybe he didn't want to help them.

'Just cleaning?' he asked. He moved to pick up Hedwig's cage and place it next to his trunk.

Hermione looked at him. She looked…apologetic.

'Harry, I'm really sorry,' she said in a quiet voice. 'We really wanted to tell you all of this in our letters –'

'Then why didn't you, Hermione?'

He did not shout, nor had he raised his voice in annoyance, anger, or exasperation. He was surprised he was able to keep his temper and emotions in check when this topic finally came up – he had half expected to be shouting at either or both his best friends for leaving him in the dark for the last four weeks. But still, it was hard not to miss the disappointment in his tone.

'But Dumbledore made us swear not to tell you anything, Harry,' she said, and Harry was surprised to hear her voice tremble slightly. He glanced over at her, and felt instantly uncomfortable at the sight of unshed tears in her eyes. 'He seemed to think it was best for you.'

An unexpected surge of irritation pooled inside his stomach at the mention of Dumbledore's insistence that Harry was to be kept without news. So it was true…Dumbledore had not thought him capable or trustworthy of information, despite whatever he'd done over the years – despite the events of June, in that graveyard.

'What changed, then?' he asked, and his voice was strangely flat and emotionless. 'Why's he changed his mind about getting me?'

Hermione seemed to hesitate with answering that question; she glanced around the room, as though trying to see if they'd missed packing anything, while she slowly wrung her hands.

'Hermione?' Harry pressed.

She turned to look at him at last, her eyes betraying a slight flicker of – was it fear? What could she possibly be scared of?

'Hermione, what –'

'They've got wind of an attack, Harry.' The words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush, as though she was trying to get it out as quick as possible.

' _What?'_

'Someone tipped the Order off about an attack on you – we're not sure by whom, but they think it'll happen today. That's why Mr Weasley said we don't have time, we think it'll happen at nightfall.'

Harry had only half-listened to her. He had already drawn his wand – which he had earlier stowed in the pocket of his jeans when he'd first entered the room – and had strode over to the window to look out onto the street. There was still some light from the sun in the distance, but it was rapidly fading. He could see street lamps flickering into life several streets away, while a few stars twinkled overhead.

He swivelled on the spot, just as the door opened and Mr Weasley walked in. He looked serious, and his wand was drawn too.

'Ready to go, Harry?' he asked. His eyes fell upon Harry's wand in his hand, and the alert expression on his face. 'What's going on?' he asked again, sharply this time, and his gaze flickered to Hermione as well.

'I told him –' she began.

'I asked her to tell me, Mr Weasley,' Harry cut across her. 'I know about the attack.' He ignored Mr Weasley's startled expression. 'When can we leave?'

Mr Weasley seemed to take a good moment or two to come to terms with the situation. When he did, however, he did not question the necessity or the details of the discussion between Harry and Hermione, for which Harry felt quite thankful.

'We are to leave in two minutes,' he said crisply. 'Tonks is checking the perimeter. We should go downstairs.'

'How are we going?' asked Harry, as he and Mr Weasley lugged the trunk down the stairs and out the front door, stopping in the middle of the pathway leading up to the house; Hermione was carrying Hedwig's cage behind them.

'Apparation,' said Mr Weasley. 'You are too young to Apparate on your own, of course,' he added in response to Harry's quizzical look, 'so I will be taking you along with me. Tonks will accompany Hermione.'

Just then, the other woman – Tonks – appeared at the foot of the pathway. Harry glanced at her, then did a double-take.

'I've seen you before,' he said, recognising the pale, heart-shaped face. Her hair, instead of its previous blonde, was now a violent shade of violet; it was also spiky, instead of being in curls. 'I almost ran into you last week, didn't I?'

Tonks did not respond, but her slightly reddening cheeks were enough of a confirmation for Harry.

'How come you were here –'

'Not _now_ , Harry, _please_ ,' said Mr Weasley, almost imploringly. 'We're out of time. Tonks?' he addressed the woman, who had turned to stare at the end of Privet Drive, her stance almost as though she was ready to duel.

'They're here.'

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	4. A Grim Old Place

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 3: A Grim Old Place**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _Just then, the other woman – Tonks – appeared at the foot of the pathway. Harry glanced at her, then did a double-take._

' _I've seen you before,' he said, recognising the pale, heart-shaped face. Her hair, instead of its previous blonde, was now a violent shade of violet; it was also spiky, instead of being in curls. 'I almost ran into you last week, didn't I?'_

 _Tonks did not respond, but her slightly reddening cheeks were enough of a confirmation for Harry._

' _How come you were here –'_

' _Not now, Harry, please,' said Mr Weasley, almost imploringly. 'We're out of time. Tonks?' he addressed the woman, who had turned to stare at the end of Privet Drive, her stance almost as though she was ready to duel._

' _They're here.'_

* * *

Harry turned to face the far end of Privet Drive, mirroring Tonks' actions as he did so: his wand was in his hand, his right foot slightly behind his left, feet spread apart to give him better balance and easy movement. Beside him, Hermione too drew her wand.

'Come on!' said Mr Weasley loudly, seizing Harry's upper arm. 'Hold on to me, Harry, and your trunk –'

Harry barely had two seconds to take in what was happening: Tonks, looking determined, had grabbed Hermione's arm as well – his best friend looked a little overwhelmed; the Death Eaters were slowly approaching them – they had crossed number ten already; Harry looked to Mr Weasley, who sported a grim, concentrated look on his face –

He felt Mr Weasley turning on the spot – he felt his trunk slipping out of his left hand, his right still clutching his wand, and being held by Mr Weasley – he tried holding onto the piece of Mr Weasley's robe nearest to him, allowing himself to be caught in Mr Weasley's swivel; he closed his eyes, waiting for whatever sensation was about to engulf him –

But nothing did. Mr Weasley almost stumbled on the spot, and Harry did stumble – he lost his grip on his trunk, which fell onto the pathway with a loud _thunk_ – his momentum from the turn caught him off-balance, making him trip and fall, almost catching Mr Weasley; he landed painfully, his elbows and knees taking the brunt of his collision with the concrete; his wand, mercifully, remained in his hand –

Behind him, he heard a shriek, a colourful curse, and a loud squawk of indignation that could only be Hedwig – clearly the ladies hadn't been successful in whatever they wanted to do either. Bewildered, and his joints throbbing painfully, he glanced up to a worried looking Mr Weasley.

'What just happened?' asked Harry, trying to push himself up.

'We can't get out,' said Tonks, her teeth gritted. Her hair was suddenly a deep shade of red. Harry blinked, sure that he had imagined the change in colour – hadn't it been violet just five minutes ago? And blonde on that day when he had almost run into her?

'But why?' asked Hermione.

'Anti-Apparation Jinx,' said Mr Weasley, and Hermione gasped.

Harry's stomach dropped. An Anti-Apparation Jinx was quite difficult to break – only the original caster could remove it. The main drawback for the caster, however, was that it lasted only for five minutes: this meant that they only needed to hold off the Death Eaters for a short while before they could move. This was especially so given the complexity of the spell – it was quite difficult to cast in the first place.

'Duck!' shouted Tonks, and they all ducked down – even Harry, who was still on the ground – and allowed a jet of sickly yellow light to zip past over their heads, smashing into the low garden wall that separated number two and number four, Privet Drive.

' _Stupefy!_ ' yelled Mr Weasley, and a jet of red light zoomed from his wand to the oncoming Death Eaters, who had almost reached number six, but were forced to scatter.

'Harry, get back inside the house!' shouted the Weasley patriarch, stepping to the side to avoid another jet of light – it whizzed past his face and collided with the garden wall, dislodging a few bricks on impact.

'But –' he started to protest.

'This is no time to argue, Harry! Please, just get back inside!'

Harry didn't want to argue at all – he wanted to help. He moved to raise his wand, but his arm was pulled down quite forcefully by Hermione.

'Harry, _no_!' she whispered urgently in his ear. 'You're not of age – you can't be doing magic outside of school –'

'We can't just stand here and not help, Hermione –'

There was a shout of pain – both teenagers snapped their heads around to look at one of the three Death Eaters who had turned up: he had fallen to the ground from Tonks' curse, clutching his stomach.

'Hurry, Harry!'

The remaining two Death Eaters, perhaps taking inspiration from their comrade's fall, began duelling harder than ever, forcing Mr Weasley and Tonks a few steps back. Harry scrambled to his feet with Hermione's help, bent down, and began dragging the trunk back up the pathway to the house – party to protect the Marauder's Map and his Invisibility Cloak which were inside it, and partly to make sure that it didn't prove to be an obstacle for Tonks or Mr Weasley. More than once, he was forced to duck or bend, as stray – and sometimes intentional – curses came flying his way. He supposed the saving grace was that none of them were of the bright green colour that he knew and dreaded.

Tonks had managed to injure another Death Eater, but he was still standing and duelling, blood pouring down his side onto the ground. She and Mr Weasley hadn't been spared, though – they were both sporting several cuts and nicks, while Mr Weasley was struggling with what seemed to be an immobile leg.

Harry dimly wondered why none of the neighbours had poked their heads out to investigate the noise and flashes of light – surely, they had to have seen them – but he couldn't think about that now; one other awry curse from the Death Eaters had missed Hermione's face by inches, singeing her hair slightly in the process –

He turned back to drag the trunk along the last few feet of the pathway – when the last street lamp on this side of the street flickered out, plunging number one, Privet Drive, into relative darkness.

 _What on earth…_

None of the duellers seemed to have noticed this odd phenomenon – and it was certainly unusual: if anything, Little Whinging was known for its consistency in the supply of power and electricity, for both public and private uses. As far as Harry could remember, there had never been a faulty bulb for the street lamps on Privet Drive.

 _So how did that go out?_

'Harry?' said Hermione, looking up into his face. His concern must have shown on it, for she looked worried – at least, more worried that what was expected for someone seeking cover from an imminent attack. 'What's wrong?'

He didn't answer. Hermione looked in the direction of his stare, and saw the non-functioning street lamp.

'It's probably just a faulty bulb, Harry –' she began, but stopped talking abruptly.

The lamp next to that had also died.

Harry swivelled on the spot, his trunk dropping to the ground once more as he turned towards the near end of Privet Drive. They were far enough from the action that was taking place on the street below, but at a good vantage point to see someone – or something – coming from the near side; for, Harry knew, there was no way this was a simple case of malfunctioning lightbulbs.

And then, from right behind him, he heard Hermione give an odd, shuddering gasp, as though she had been doused in icy water. He whirled around, finding her unharmed and okay, and yet…

He was breathing heavily, and some corner of his mind vaguely noticed his breath coming out in little puffs, as though as he was smoking – but he wasn't…

Night had fallen at last, but it didn't seem like night at all. The sky – up till then dotted here and there with stars – was now pitch black and devoid of any light; all forms of illumination had disappeared. Noises too, were muffled and indistinct: the distant rumble of cars was gone; Harry could not see or hear the Death Eaters, or Mr Weasley or Tonks clearly. Behind him, Hermione's sharp breaths were the only indication that she was next to him…

Hermione let out another gasp: one which Harry knew so well from the four years he had known her – a gasp of recognition, and horror…

And as the biting, piercing cold hit him moments later – the cold that went inside his chest, into his very heart; as his euphoria of him leaving the Dursleys that summer, already dimmed because of the Death Eater attack, seemed to slip away, his reason caught up with his senses…

He heard them before he could see them – their harsh, rattling breaths – even from his vantage point, a good thirty yards away – they seemed to go on forever, sucking in all the remaining air from around them, and along with that, the happiness and hope of every single person and living creature unfortunate enough to be in their vicinity. Harry heard a cat mewl and howl a miserable sound in the distance.

And then, he saw them – two towering, hooded figures, cloaked in black robes, were hovering at the near end of Privet Drive; their sightless faces under their hoods turning this way and that, as though looking for something, or someone… a second later, they were enshrouded in a thick mist, something that they had brought along with them…

 _How were they here? It was impossible…_

'H-Harry…' came Hermione's stutter next to him.

'Hermione, take my hand,' he said, his voice sounding a lot more confident than he felt; he reached out behind him, blindly, groping in the thick, heavy air that swirled around them like an unnatural mist; a moment later, she had grabbed it, her nails digging slightly into his skin that made him wince, but not cry out. Her hand was cold – surely as cold as he was, for he could feel goose bumps erupting up and down his arms –

'Why are they here?' asked Hermione in a whisper. Harry could feel her trembling, and tried to squeeze her arm in reassurance.

'I dunno – wait. _Lumos!_ '

His wand tip flared and ignited; beams of light cut through the fog around them. Harry raised it above his head, waiting for the light to increase in intensity, to illuminate more of his surroundings…

The cold was intense, striking him and all others with a vengeance; his teeth chattered slightly, and his arms shuddered in the chill – dressed as he was for an extremely warm summer evening, he was feeling the brunt of it.

The sound of hoarse, rattling breaths got closer and closer; while the light from his wand had cut through the mist in front of him, it was not enough for him to discern the immediate vicinity; he narrowed his eyes – wincing once again as Hermione's nails dug a little deeper into his arm – straining to see through the fog, to identify them.

A yell from the duellers caused him to lose focus – dim flashes of light were now visible, but he could not tell who had shouted out – was it Mr Weasley? Harry's chest tightened – Mr Weasley had to be fine, he just had to be –

Why was he waiting? He could cast a perfectly good Patronus – so why was he waiting to drive the Dementors off? Wasn't this a life or death experience: being approached by a Dementor? Harry could think of no reason for why he had waited for this long – waited for the Dementors to come closer. Maybe he was relying on the adults to drive them away; maybe he was waiting for the Dementors to attack the Death Eaters instead – surely, they were much easier prey than two school-children…

But as this thought came into his mind, a more disturbing, more morbid thought entered his head –

What if the Death Eaters had sent them? What if they were taking orders from someone else other than the Ministry – someone like Voldemort? Was this a diversionary tactic that Voldemort was employing – if yes, which one was the diversion? The Death Eater attack, or the Dementor assault?

Harry's head was swimming with questions, and he could not think of any answers for them – and yet, he still did not move. The cold and the fog seemed to have frozen him to place – to inaction, waiting for the Dementors to come and Kiss him, leaving him soulless and empty…

The screaming had started in his head – his mother's screams, begging and pleading with Voldemort to spare her son's life in exchange for her own – it morphed into his father's urgent tones, yelling at his wife to take him, Harry, and run, while he would hold off the intruder to their home in Godric's Hollow –

And then, the noises were different – more recent, and more nightmarish that the pain and horror from all those years ago…

' _Harry, get out of here!'_

 _His scar was on fire, his head seemed like it would split open –_

' _Kill the spare!'_

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

 _A flash of blinding green light, a rushing sound – and Cassius Warrington was on the ground beside him, dead –_

No…no… _no!_

He had shouted the last word out loud, and in that instant, he felt a great surge of determination flare up inside him. Voldemort had taken a lot from him and his life – but no more.

With a monumental effort, ignoring the high, cold laugh of Voldemort now ringing inside his head, he raised his wand.

' _Expecto Patronum!'_

The ethereal stag erupted from the tip of his wand, charging with its head down straight towards the Dementors; one of the creatures moved out of the way just in time, but the other was not so lucky – the stag's antlers caught it where its heart would have been; the Dementor was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and swooped away.

Its fellow had tried to use the first attack as a distraction – Harry dimly wondered if it had actually thought that through, or if it was just following instincts – but the stag had sensed the ruse at once; it turned around at an impossible speed, and galloped straight for the second Dementor, impaling it in the back as it tossed it into the air –

But it didn't seem like it was over: the mist had not cleared up, the sounds from around them were still indistinct and muffled, and the lights had not come back on.

And then, Harry heard a yell of fright and shock from nearby – it seemed the Dementors had found another target as their prey, and were advancing on him. He was sure it wasn't Mr Weasley – that had not sounded like the man – but the thought of the Dementor's Kiss being administered on someone so close to him…

Prongs the Patronus seemed to understand what Harry was thinking, for it bent its head and charged into the fray, where, sure enough, one of the Dementors was clutching the wrists of one of the Death Eaters in its slimy, rotting hands, pulling them slowly apart, ready to give the man a loving kiss –

The stag caught the Dementor just in time, right in the face – it was tossed, once again, into the air, and disappeared into the night; a moment later, Harry saw its comrade join it in soaring away.

Normality returned so fast and abruptly, Harry took a good minute in taking it in. The stars and street lamps burst back into life; the mist disappeared, leaving a distinctly warmer and rarer summer breeze in its wake; the sounds of cars rumbling and people talking in the neighbouring houses filled his ears again.

He stood there, panting as though he'd run a mile, before he noticed the scene before him. The section of Privet Drive from number eight to the Dursleys' house was the most affected: the road was pockmarked and damaged in numerous places; scorch marks decorated the road as well as the low fences that lined the houses nearby. Number six had taken a lot of hits, with the Death Eaters taking shelter behind its walls from the spells fired by Tonks and Mr Weasley; chips of wood and concrete had been blown off from the house and its pathway respectively.

As Harry took the destruction in, the damage began to seemingly repair itself – Mr Weasley and Tonks, looking a little worse for the wear, were waving their wands in complex motions as they set the street and the houses back to rights. Once they were finished, they staggered back to where Harry stood near the porch. Harry noticed they seemed to be supporting each other; Mr Weasley's leg looked quite bad, if its lack of mobility was anything to go by.

'That was…' said Hermione, and Harry only just noticed that his best friend was still holding onto his arm tightly. She looked pale and faint, but otherwise seemed unhurt. The sensations of touch and smell were slowly returning to him, and he found that he was sweating – which had nothing to do with the heat of that summer.

'Where did the Death Eaters go?' asked Harry; he was surprised that his voice sounded this steady and calm after everything.

 _Almost dying in a lonely graveyard changes you._

 _ **Shut it.**_

'Disapparated,' said Mr Weasley, slumping onto the porch, his leg no longer able to support him. 'After the Dementors went for them, they panicked.'

'Thank goodness they did,' said Tonks; she looked paler than how Harry had seen her earlier. 'I couldn't see or hear anything properly after those… _things_ , showed up.' She shuddered. 'Kept bringing back…stuff.'

Mr Weasley patted her elbow soothingly. Harry didn't say anything: Dementors were supposed to make a person relive and re-experience their worst memories, and he didn't want to press Tonks for details.

'That was some impressive Patronus, Harry,' said Mr Weasley, after a few moments of silence. The balding red-headed man looked up at him. 'Was it a stag?'

Harry nodded, still not saying anything. His mind was whirring with questions and details from the evening's events. Fortunately, he was saved from opening his mouth by Hermione's question.

'Why were they here?'

 _Why, indeed…_

Tonks shook her head. 'Haven't got a clue. The Dementors are supposed to be in Azkaban, like always. I don't understand how they could have turned up here.'

'It seems too much of a coincidence that they were here on the night Harry was being moved,' said Hermione. She turned to Mr Weasley, who was sporting an intrigued expression on his tired face. 'You don't think they –'

What exactly Mr Weasley did or did not think, they never found out; at that precise instant, an owl swooped down upon them from the darkness, so suddenly that Hermione shrieked in fright. The tawny bird circled above their heads, dropped an envelope at Harry's feet, turned gracefully in the air, and zoomed out of sight into the night.

The silence that seemed to follow the appearance of the letter was so absolute, Harry was sure he could have heard a thumbnail drop. Slowly, as though expecting another trap, he bent down and picked up the envelope, turning it over to see who it was addressed to.

 _Mr H. Potter_

 _Number Four, Privet Drive_

 _Little Whinging, Surrey_

On the back of the envelope was a logo – a large, black, 'M', with projections that extended from the corners of the letter. There was also a wand, placed dead-centre of the seal. Harry did not need the gasp from Hermione, or the grim faces of Mr Weasley and Tonks, to tell him what the seal meant.

With his heart now pounding fiercely in his chest, Harry pulled out the letter and read its contents out loud.

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at eighteen minutes past eight this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area._

 _Given this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875 (Paragraph C), your presence is hereby required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9.00 am on August 12_ _th_ _, 1995._

 _Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion from school, and the decision to destroy your wand, shall be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries._

 _It may please be noted that the hearing would also investigate alleged offences under section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy._

 _Hoping you are well,_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Mafalda Hopkirk_

 _IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE_

 _Ministry of Magic_

Harry stared at the letter, only vaguely aware of Hermione's sharp intake of breath, and Mr Weasley's exclamation of outrage. Inside his head, however, he felt numb. His chest seemed to have knotted itself, to a point where his breaths came out in short and shallow gasps.

 _Disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic…consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries…_

The parchment had slipped from his fingers, floating to the ground as it caught the almost non-existent breeze. He could see, in his peripheral vision, Tonks catching it before it drifted away.

'Harry?' Hermione's voice seemed to reach him from a great distance; he turned to look at her, his befuddled mind registering some surprise that she was there, right next to him.

And then, like a wave gathering pace before reaching its crescendo, the reality of the situation built up and came crashing down around him. He was in Privet Drive – he had just used the Patronus Charm to drive off Dementors that had somehow turned up there; there had been a Death Eater attack at around the same time; and now he, Harry, was suspended from Hogwarts pending a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic.

'This is outrageous!' said Mr Weasley. Harry had never seen the Weasley patriarch look this…angry. Annoyance, yes – often when it came to the twins' antics – but never anger. But it made him feel a bit better, since he knew the man was angry on his behalf.

'Surely they can't expel him,' said Hermione worriedly. She looked between Tonks and Mr Weasley. 'Can they?'

Mr Weasley shook his head. 'Even if they wanted to, they wouldn't have any legal grounds. Underage witches and wizards are permitted to do magic outside school in the event of any life-threatening situation, and this certainly qualified as one.'

They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Harry was finally able to come to terms with what had just happened – the Death Eaters, the Dementors, and then the letter from the Ministry, suspending him from school. He had no idea if they even had the authority to do so – wasn't that supposed to be taken up with the Board of Governors? – but there was nothing more to be done for it. Everything seemed to hinge on this hearing on the twelfth of August – a little over two weeks away.

After they had reminisced for a few more minutes, Tonks finally suggested that they get a move on to Headquarters. Mr Weasley's leg was a bit better, but it still felt numb and immobile, and he swayed dangerously on the spot as he tried to walk along on it. Finally, he settled for waiting on the porch of number four, as Tonks took Hermione first, then Harry, and finally himself, to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

* * *

Harry's initial feelings about Apparation were that it was a really cool way to travel – disappearing from one place, only to appear instantly at another. It saved so much time that would have been spent on either broom travel, Floo powder, or even the Knight Bus.

By the end of his first Apparation experience, however, he was pretty sure even the Knight Bus would have been a better option.

'First time, huh?' asked Tonks, as Harry gulped in great lungfuls of blessed air. His chest felt very tight, as though it had been squeezed through a particularly small tube, and his ears seemed as though they hadn't wanted to fit into the tube at all. Absent-mindedly, he patted the pocket of his jeans for the bulge that signified his trunk's presence – Mr Weasley had, rather thoughtfully, decided to shrink his trunk before his Apparation, claiming that it would be easier to carry around.

Tonks chuckled at his reaction. 'You'll get used to it,' she said bracingly.

'I'm not sure I want to,' said Harry rather weakly, causing Tonks to snigger again.

'We'll just wait until someone comes out and gets you,' she said, looking around.

Harry, who had managed to overcome his mild nausea, mimicked her. They were standing in what appeared to be a small square in a rather unwelcoming neighbourhood, if the appearance of the surrounding houses was anything to go by. Most of them had grimy and uncleaned windows; the paint was peeling off some of the doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.

Harry had never set foot in any part of London apart from Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron, and King's Cross Station, so he had no idea what to expect from a London living neighbourhood. This, however, was definitely not it.

'This is Islington? I thought –'

But Tonks cut him off with a shushing motion of her hand. 'Wait till you're inside, Harry.'

He looked at her, bewildered. Inside – where? Not one of these houses, surely? He glanced up and down the road that ran adjacent to the square, and the dilapidated looking houses beyond. The area seemed so…odd, to be housing the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

It was then that he noticed something else that was odd. The square was scarcely lit – even the street lamps looked as though they had seen better days – but they cast enough light onto the house numbers on the other side of the road. From what he could make out, there was a number ten and a number eleven, but the house next to that was number thirteen.

'Hang on, where's –'

But he broke off, as a figure suddenly appeared on the pavement across the road. He watched as the figure glanced along both sides of the road, as though checking that they were indeed alone; then, with surprising quickness, hurried across it to the exact area of the square where he and Tonks stood. Harry noticed that Tonks had her wand out, but she was not yet pointing it at the figure.

He understood why a split second later: the figure passed beneath the glare of a grimy street lamp, revealing the tired visage of his favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and his father's old friend, Remus Lupin.

'Professor Lupin!' he almost shouted out loud, but thankfully managed to keep his excitement in check. He hadn't seen the man in over a year, and he had just realised how much he'd missed having the Professor around.

'It's good to see you, Harry,' said Lupin with a kind smile. He then turned to Tonks. 'Go and get him, I'll take Harry inside.' As Tonks nodded and turned to leave, he added, 'Quickly Tonks, he's just arrived.'

Tonks barely acknowledged the words as she Disapparated with a loud _CRACK_.

'Who's just arrived?' asked Harry curiously.

'Not here, Harry,' said Lupin, strangely wary and quite alert. He rummaged in the pocket of his robes, withdrew a single piece of parchment, and handed it over to Harry.

'Read it and memorise,' he instructed, and Harry did, vaguely recognising the slanted writing.

 _The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London._

Harry memorised the note; once he'd indicated so to Lupin, the latter took the piece of parchment, and burned it to ashes with the tip of his wand.

'Right,' said Lupin, grabbing Harry's elbow and steering him to cross the road, all the while looking around anxiously. Once they'd reached the gate to enter number eleven, Lupin turned to Harry once more, and opened his mouth to speak – but Harry beat him to it.

'It's hidden, then?'

'What?'

'The house,' said Harry. 'It's hidden. Some charm, right?'

Lupin gave him an odd look, but nodded, nonetheless. 'Yes,' he said shortly. 'I'll explain inside. Now, think about what you've just memorised.'

Harry did so, and no sooner had he reached the bit about the address of Headquarters, the house in question quite literally inflated into existence. The battered door – looking as worn down and old as the others on that street – emerged out of nowhere, followed by walls, windows, and even a roof; the new house pushed numbers eleven and thirteen out of the way with surprising silence, with the door knocker materialising as the final touch.

'Come on,' said Lupin, and the two of them made their way up the worn stone steps. Harry noticed, as they approached the door, that the door knocker was silver, and in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no key-hole, or a post box, or even a door handle.

Lupin tapped the door with his wand, and Harry heard several loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like a chain rattling; then, the door swung open.

Harry's first impression of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix – an organisation fighting against the Dark forces of Lord Voldemort – was that it looked rather foreboding and dingy. The place had a feel of a derelict building, as though no one had lived in here for a long time. The stench of damp wood, dusty furniture and walls, and rotten…things, filled his nostrils. Somehow, he was thankful that he could not see any further than what was immediately in front of him – the hallway was completely dark, save for Lupin's wand, which he had lit upon entering the house.

A soft hissing noise filled the hall; all at once, old fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life along the walls, casting eerie shadows of the cobweb-filled chandelier hanging above, and what looked like a troll's leg fashioned into an umbrella stand. Now that Harry could see – albeit with some difficulty, given the flickering insubstantial light from the lamps – he noticed the long hallway, adorned with ancient-looking, grimy portraits that hung upon peeling, dirty wallpaper. The carpet below his feet was threadbare, and let out very faint clouds of dust with every step he took as he followed Lupin inside.

He could understand the need for secrecy – they were at war, after all, despite the Ministry's overt attempts at denying it – but to this level? This house seem protected, yes, but surely there were better places to station their Headquarters. Surely Dumbledore could have arranged for Hogwarts as a location? Or any other place, for that matter. Why choose this…dump – Harry had no other word for it – a place that looked like it was home to the Darkest of wizards?

His musings were cut short by a pattering of footsteps in front of them, and out of the darkness emerged Mrs Weasley, Ron's mother. She was wearing an apron over her usual dress, and beamed at the sight of Harry.

'Oh Harry, it's lovely to see you!' she whispered, and pulled him into one of her trademark rib-cracking hugs. She pulled back and examined him at arm's length with a critical eye – a look that he knew quite well.

'You haven't been eating well, you'll need feeding up, but you'll need to wait for dinner, I'm afraid…'

There was a series of clicks behind them: almost at once, Lupin swivelled around, pushing Harry back behind Mrs Weasley, who had raised her wand and pointed it towards the door. A moment later, however, she lowered it: Tonks and Mr Weasley had appeared in the doorway.

'Oh Arthur, thank goodness!' said Mrs Weasley, a little louder than how she'd greeted Harry, but still soft by her usual standards. Harry's confusion over the choice of location only increased as he watched Mrs Weasley hurry forward and support her husband, who gave her a weak smile in return.

'I'll Floo Poppy, she should be free to look at your leg, Arthur,' said Tonks, hurrying down the hallway as fast as she could. He heard Lupin whisper urgently, 'Quietly!' as she passed by.

 _Okay, what on earth…_

'What is this place, Professor?'

'Not now, Harry –'

But Harry's curiosity had reached its peak; he was burning with questions, and he was not going to just sit aside and be satisfied with the answers others gave him. He'd learnt that from his questioning of Hermione at the Dursleys' – Dumbledore wasn't going to give him information, so he was going to have to get it for himself.

'Please don't tell me _'not now'_ , Professor,' he said, and even he was surprised by how firm his voice was. 'I've been stuck at Privet Drive for four whole weeks – I think I deserve to know what's happening around here.'

Mrs Weasley gave him a chiding look. 'That is no way to talk –' she began, but Lupin cut her off.

'You're right, Harry. However, I must insist that I cannot answer your questions right now. Please, if you could wait until dinner.'

Harry looked at his ex-Defence teacher: his lined face looked, if possible, even more worn out, but the look in his eyes was quite sincere enough. He gave a nod of assent, which Lupin returned.

'Molly, why don't you get help Arthur get to the meeting – Tonks should have Flooed Poppy by now –'

Harry privately thought Lupin had made a very good suggestion, because Mrs Weasley seemed to be very upset. She gave Lupin a curt nod, and supported her husband along the hallway to a door at its far end, which Harry hadn't initially noticed. Lupin then beckoned Harry to follow him, which he did, feeling a mixture of defiance, anxiety, and trepidation. It must have shown on his face, however, for Lupin turned to him and patted his shoulder.

'I'm not angry with you, and neither is Molly,' he said, his tone reassuring. 'She just wants to protect you – as do all of us.'

At those words, unbidden, an image of Cassius Warrington's dead body lying on the ground next to him rose into Harry's mind.

'I don't want anyone to become another _spare_ , Professor.'

* * *

Even dinner with the Dursleys' had never been this tense.

After his conversation with Lupin, Harry had joined Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny in his room on the second floor of the house, where they had greeted each other and discussed what they knew about the Order's activities, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Only a few Extendable Ears had survived Mrs Weasley purge of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes items, and she had taken extra precautions in making sure that the children wouldn't glean more information than what she deemed necessary for them to know.

Her determination – and the Orders', too – to keep them in the dark gnawed at Harry. Even the simple fact that they were at Sirius' house – something he had found out after being introduced to his godfather and the portrait of Walburga Black, his mother – had not been told to him at the start.

With his own guilt at Percy's estrangement from his family over Voldemort's return, Harry had been in far from a cheerful mood as he entered the basement kitchen for dinner –

– only to almost bump into Professor Severus Snape.

 _Great, as if this day couldn't get any worse._

The kitchen, which had up till then been full of chatter and the occasional laugh, went very quiet. Clearly everyone present was expecting some sort of confrontation – Snape's dislike of Harry, and his loathing of Sirius, who'd come up to stand behind his godson – was well known.

And yet, Snape had not said a word. Well, his lip had curled distastefully, but apart from that, and a glare at Harry – which he returned with equal fervour – the Potions Master neither said nor did anything. A moment's silence later, he had swept out of the kitchen.

 _That's odd._

 _ **Maybe he didn't want to insult you in front of everyone.**_

 _He's done that several times in every Potions' class._

Harry had given himself a mental shake and shrug – wondering about Snape's unusual behaviour was not something he had wanted to do at that time – and had taken his place at the long table in the kitchen, only vaguely paying attention to Sirius and Mundungus' conversation about the Black family goblets.

It was after the quite sumptuous dinner – courtesy Mrs Weasley's superb culinary skills – that the atmosphere had altered dramatically.

As they finished their last helpings of dessert (rhubarb crumble and custard), and as several satisfied sighs and hums echoed around the long table, Harry placed his own spoon down and turned to Lupin, a determined expression on his face.

'You asked me to wait until dinner, Professor.'

If he had not been so focused on getting a reply from Lupin, he would have laughed at the scene before him: everyone had stopped in the middle of whatever they had been doing; it was as though someone had hit the "pause" button on a remote, causing all activity to cease midway. Ron had his spoon halfway inside his mouth, his expression curious as he stared between Harry and Lupin. Fred and George, who had been chuckling at Mundungus' latest story, looked at Lupin, their laughs still etched upon their identical faces. Tonks' nose – which had been in the middle of a transformation – was now halfway between a horse's nose and her own, which looked quite grotesque.

Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his silver goblet, looking weary and resigned.

'So I did,' he said quietly, but his voice carried across the table in the pin-drop silence that had permeated the room.

'Remus?' said Mrs Weasley, every trace of her previous drowsiness gone from her face.

Lupin did not respond immediately. He was looking at his goblet of wine – Harry thought he was hoping for answers to bubble up out of the fruity concoction, given the intensity of his gaze. It was few moments later that Lupin raised his head and looked towards Mrs Weasley.

'Harry's right, Molly,' he said, his voice still soft. 'He deserves to know what's been going on.'

Mrs Weasley's fists were clenched upon the arms of her chair. She looked quite dangerous – Harry had never seen her like this before, even when she had been furious at her twin sons over their sweets.

'He's too young,' she said, her voice sharp. 'And have you forgotten Dumbledore's instructions on the matter –'

Lupin opened his mouth to respond, but Harry beat him to it.

'Since when has Voldemort cared about anyone's age, Mrs Weasley?'

Harry snorted at the shudders and winces from the occupants of the kitchen at the mention of the name. This was the Order of the Phoenix?

'None of you can even hear his name without getting scared – how do you expect to actually fight against him?'

The question elicited more than a few frowns and mutters, especially from Professor McGonagall, whom he had met before dinner.

'He's got a point,' said Sirius, giving his godson a proud look. 'I've been telling you lot the same thing for ages.'

'Be that as it may,' said Mrs Weasley, glaring at Sirius, 'Harry is still a child –'

'– who's faced and done more things than most of the Order, Molly,' interjected Sirius.

'No one's denying what he's done!' said Mrs Weasley sharply. 'But he's still too young, and not in the Order –'

'How does that make a difference?' asked Harry.

'You're not of age, Harry, and I don't think you should be worried about –'

Harry could not suppress the snort of laughter that burst out of him, and Mrs Weasley broke off.

'Shouldn't be worried?' he asked. 'Voldemort tried to kill me when I was a baby, Mrs Weasley, and now he's back. I think I have every right to be worried about him, don't you?'

There was a stunned silence. No one moved or spoke. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins had been turning their heads between Harry, Mrs Weasley, and Sirius as though watching a doubles' tennis rally, only with the last player missing. Now, however, they were staring at Harry, mouths agape at his retort.

'That was uncalled for, Harry –' said Mr Weasley, a bit firmly.

'I'm sorry, Mr Weasley,' interrupted Harry, 'but I'm not a child anymore. I never even had a childhood to begin with – Voldemort and the Dursleys saw to that.' He took a deep breath. 'I cannot be mollycoddled, Mr Weasley, not anymore. I think I have the right to know what's going on. Especially when I'm quite sure it's going to come down to me against Voldemort.'

The silence that permeated the room was deafening; if the occupants hadn't moved a muscle at the beginning of that conversation, they certainly weren't moving anything now. Even the air seemed to have become still, thick as it was with the tension developing between Harry and Mrs Weasley. Everyone stared at the pair of them – everyone, except Sirius and Lupin, who exchanged significant looks, which went unnoticed by everyone else, except the razor-sharp eyes of Hermione.

At last, it was Lupin who broke the silence.

'Arguing on this is not going to help any of us,' he said, looking between Sirius and Mrs Weasley. 'Personally, I think it best that Harry gets the facts – just a general picture of what's been going on – from us, rather than any garbled, misinterpreted version.'

Mrs Weasley let out a deep breath, while Sirius looked at his long-time friend with an inscrutable expression. Lupin then turned to Harry.

'It is not a question of mollycoddling you, Harry,' he said. 'You must understand that all of us have your best interests at heart, and only wish to keep you safe. Even if it means having to keep some things from you.' Harry thought he'd imagined it, but Lupin's eyes seemed to flicker very quickly towards Sirius as he said so.

There was a very awkward pause. No one seemed to know what to say, although it seemed to Harry like they were waiting for him to continue the conversation.

 _Channel your anger, Harry…and pick your battles._

Daphne's advice repeated itself in his mind, as he contemplated the argument he'd just had. Lupin was right – he was _not_ a child anymore, but the adults in his life _were_ acting with his best interests in mind. It wouldn't do any good for him to get angry at them for doing so. Voldemort deserved his rage, not them.

'I understand, Professor,' he said, hoping he sounded as genuine as he felt. 'And…thank you.'

'Very well,' said Lupin, clasping his hands in front of him. 'What would you like to know?'

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	5. Discussions

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 4: Discussions**

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 **Author's Note: I realise the plot progress is slow, but I expect it to be that way this year, since there's just so much to cover. Fifth year was a year where** _ **everything**_ **changed, and with the plot points provided by the Tumblr post, the repercussions for each of them need to be fleshed out well. So yes, this story will be considerably longer than the first one.**

 **Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it. Please also excuse the horrible chapter name – suggestions?**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _There was a very awkward pause. No one seemed to know what to say, although it seemed to Harry like they were waiting for him to continue the conversation._

Channel your anger, Harry…and pick your battles.

 _Daphne's advice repeated itself in his mind, as he contemplated the argument he'd just had. Lupin was right – he was_ not _a child anymore, but the adults in his life_ were _acting with his best interests in mind. It wouldn't do any good for him to get angry at them for doing so. Voldemort deserved his rage, not them._

' _I understand, Professor,' he said, hoping he sounded as genuine as he felt. 'And…thank you.'_

' _Very well,' said Lupin, clasping his hands in front of him. 'What would you like to know?'_

* * *

The days following the discussion about the Order of the Phoenix and its activities in the basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, were the most unusual and uncomfortable Harry had ever spent while in the company of the Weasleys.

Mrs Weasley had adopted a slightly frosty attitude towards both him and Sirius. Harry knew she was still upset over the fact that, despite her reservations on telling Harry anything more than what he _needed to know_ , the rest of the Order members considered Harry's demands for information quite justified – even if it was just, as Lupin had said, a general picture of what was going on. The fact that she had been unable to restrict Ron, Hermione, and the twins from staying behind was, in Harry's opinion, salt in an open wound.

They had, at least, agreed on one thing that Harry certainly needed to know: why had his retrieval party from Privet Drive consisted of Mr Weasley, Tonks, and Hermione only? Especially when Dumbledore knew of a potential Death Eater attack, and presumably had the full Order at his command?

'Unfortunately, he didn't,' Mr Weasley said sadly.

'What?'

'No one else from the Order was available,' he explained, 'except Tonks and I. We had just returned to Headquarters from another mission when we received the tip.'

'From whom?'

'Mundungus Fletcher,' said Sirius. 'He's a crook, so he hears things we usually don't. When he heard a few people whispering about you and attacking Privet Drive, he tipped off Dumbledore at once.'

'Okay…' said Harry slowly. 'But why bring Hermione then?'

At this, Mr Weasley looked a little sheepish. 'Ah yes, well…' he cleared his throat. 'We had thought that maybe, as a familiar face, Hermione would help in calming you down, in case you were ticked off.' He smiled apologetically.

Harry had the grace to look slightly abashed – he _had_ been annoyed at the lack of news from his friends and Sirius.

'Well, it worked,' said Harry, with a grin towards Hermione. 'But I don't think you factored in the Dementors, did you?'

'No, that we did not.'

Mr Weasley, who had sided with the rest of the Order, also seemed to be on the receiving end of some of Mrs Weasley's ire; Harry had caught the latter glaring and frowning at her husband on more than one occasion in the following few days. He felt a little guilty about it – after all, he had been less than polite to both of them during the discussion. Mr Weasley, however, appeared to have noticed his expression, and reassured him that he had nothing to feel guilty about.

'Molly – and I as well, for that matter – see you as one of our own, Harry,' Mr Weasley told him one evening. 'She is a mother, and will always want to protect her children from any harm. She's just taking time to get used to the fact that our children are growing up, and may not need that protection anymore.'

Harry only managed a nod; he was greatly touched by what Mr Weasley had said about them seeing him as one of their own. An unexpected wave of shame cascaded over him – they were as good as family, and he was not about to become another Percy.

He opened his mouth to apologise for his words that evening, but Mr Weasley nodded knowingly, and patted his shoulder.

'It's alright, Harry,' he said.

'But –'

Mr Weasley shook his head. 'You were right – you are no longer a child, and you deserve to know what is going on. Molly knows this as well – she's just having a tough time accepting it.' He looked Harry in the eye, while gripping the young teenager's shoulder tightly. 'We will always be there for you Harry, don't worry.'

It was only after Mr Weasley said those words that Harry realised how much Mr and Mrs Weasley's approval mattered to him, and how disappointed he was at upsetting the two of them. It was a heady and unusual feeling – the sensation of being cared about, of being _wanted_. He could do nothing more than nod in response to Mr Weasley's words – he didn't trust himself to speak just yet.

Mr Weasley patted his shoulder once more before leaving the room.

After that eye-opening, and slightly emotional conversation, and after taking a few minutes to collect himself, Harry resolved to apologise to Mrs Weasley. He still stood by what he had said in the kitchen that evening, but he knew he could have phrased his desires a lot better. Mrs Weasley hadn't deserved that.

He half-expected another row with her, or at least cold, distant responses, but was unexpectedly surprised – and taken quite off-guard – when Mrs Weasley hugged him tightly upon hearing his apology.

'Oh Harry, you didn't need to apologise,' she said, sniffling a bit as she pulled back to look at him fondly. Harry felt his chest clench a bit – how could he have even thought of speaking to her in that manner?

His embarrassment obviously showed on his face, for Mrs Weasley gave a watery chuckle.

'You're as good as my son, just like Hermione is like my daughter, and I only want to see my children safe and happy.' She sniffed again, before giving him another tight hug, and then telling him to run along so that she could finish preparing dinner.

Harry had barely left the room when he met Sirius, leaning against the wall with a wide grin on his face.

'I'm very proud of you, Harry,' said Sirius, and Harry felt his face burn at the praise. 'I'd been telling the Order you needed to be informed, but they were all for listening to Dumbledore's instructions.'

There was a certain flattened tone of voice in which Sirius mentioned Dumbledore's name, which indicated to Harry that his godfather wasn't too happy with Dumbledore, either. He felt a sudden upsurge of affection towards Sirius, and the rather childish question that had been plaguing him since his last day at Privet Drive burst out of him before he could stop it.

'Why doesn't he trust me, Sirius?'

The tone of his voice was almost in complete contrast to Sirius' earlier flat tone – it sounded desperate and lost. Sirius gave his godson a sympathetic look.

'He does trust you, Harry,' said Sirius softly. He stepped forward and pulled the young boy into a hug. 'We all trust you, never forget that. He just wants to –'

'– protect me, I know,' said Harry, his voice muffled against Sirius' t-shirt. 'But I can't be protected – you know that.' He pulled back, looking up into the eyes that had not yet lost their haunted look, courtesy of Sirius' long incarceration in Azkaban. 'Voldemort's going to come after me – he's wanted me dead since I was a baby.'

Sirius stepped back and regarded Harry with a critical eye. 'I know he is,' he said, in an uncharacteristically serious voice. 'It's no secret that he's been after you for a long time now, but I don't want that to ruin your life, Harry.'

Harry looked at his godfather, nonplussed. 'What do you mean?'

'Don't let yourself be consumed by Voldemort's obsession of you. Don't let him control your life through his irrational desire to kill you. I want you to enjoy your time here, and once you return to school, too. And whatever you do, do not succumb to any self-pity or self-recrimination over what happened in June.'

Harry nodded, finally understanding the truth in his godfather's words.

'And don't worry about the Ministry, either,' continued Sirius, his voice now reminiscent of a dog's growl. 'They'll come around soon enough, and when they do, I'm not sure I'd want to accept their apology.'

Harry chuckled, feeling slightly better at the show of affection and support from his godfather. The feelings of abandonment and frustration at having being left alone at Privet Drive had all but disappeared. He was now in the company of people who cared for him, and cared about what happened to him – and that meant more to him than anything else at that moment.

* * *

With Harry having cleared the air and apologised to Mrs Weasley, her frostiness towards him and Sirius diminished, and she became much like her old, mothering self again. Tensions around the house, which had increased after that evening's discussion, diffused almost overnight; the upshot of this was that everyone felt cheery enough to get involved in the monumental task of cleaning out the house.

With over fifteen rooms and probably double the number of closets and cupboards in the gloomy house of the Blacks, there was plenty of work to go around for everyone who was staying there permanently, and even for those who merely visited once in a while. Tonks, who had her own flat in London, and Lupin, who was in residence, but often left for long periods of time to undertake mysterious work for the Order, came by quite regularly to help in the cleaning – or, as Ron had quite succinctly put it, 'the war against the house.'

Harry had to agree with that statement. Aided and abetted by Kreacher, the old Black family house-elf, the house seemed to be putting up a pretty good fight against the intruders to its once filthy and lonely existence: from murderous ghouls and bolt-shooting grandfather clocks, to ancient purple robes that attempted to strangle anyone who tried to remove it from the wardrobe, number twelve, Grimmauld Place seemed to be doing its best to resist any change to itself.

Slowly, but surely, however, the occupants of the house seemed to be winning: they had managed to clean out most of the bedrooms, thereby allowing people to sleep comfortably without fear of anything lurking in locked wardrobes in the corner, or behind old and tarnished portraits. The dining room on the ground floor had been cleaned too – meetings of the Order were now held exclusively in the basement kitchen, while their meals were served in the cleaned-out dining room.

Harry had taken Sirius' advice to heart, and was now determinedly having fun as he worked and cleaned with the others. He often joined the twins in their occasional pranks against Ron and Bill – when the oldest Weasley brother was around – but sometimes chipped in with a few good pranking ideas for Sirius and Lupin to implement upon the rest of the occupants of the house. He found himself laughing more, and enjoying the company of his favourite people in the world.

There were times, however, when the work ceased, and he was left alone, that thoughts of the upcoming Ministry hearing would return to him. He knew he had an iron-clad case of acting in self-defence in a life-threatening situation, and he had three witnesses who could testify in his favour, but there was still a sliver of doubt that pricked at him…what if he was expelled? What would he do then? The idea was so terrible, so foreboding, that he dared not voice it out loud – he was sure the others would give him pitying, commiserating looks, and those were the last things he needed right now.

It was during these times that he missed Daphne the most – she would have known what to say to cheer him up and comfort him; she always knew it. Harry couldn't begrudge her going for a holiday, while also protecting her family from the Death Eaters and Voldemort, but he was disgruntled and, truth be told, a little upset, that she couldn't have stayed behind. If anyone could have helped him with the hearing, he was sure it would have been her. He had even taken to perusing through her earlier letters, grinning at her snarky and sarcastic words about her sister and Hogwarts, and smiling wistfully at her priceless pieces of advice.

Sirius seemed to have noticed his occasional switch to a gloomy, thoughtful mood, and insisted that he focus on whatever task they had on their hands, rather than worrying about a hearing that was still a few days away. Harry also suspected that his godfather had spoken to the Weasleys and Hermione about his worry, for after the first few times of brooding on his own, he noticed he was never left alone at any time of the day. Even Ginny, who had never been able to talk to him directly without blushing and stuttering, was proving to be a good friend. Harry was touched by their gesture, and though he did not say so, knew that they knew how he felt.

The upshot of this magnanimous show of support meant that he was finally able to find time to speak to Ron and Hermione alone, without any fear of prying ears or watchful eyes. It was during one such conversation that Harry was able to ask Ron and Hermione a few questions, which he'd been meaning to ask for a while now.

They were in the room which Harry shared with Ron on the second floor of the house. Fred and George had retreated to their own room in the floor above; no doubt they were working on a new product for the Skiving Snackboxes they wished to develop and sell at Hogwarts. Ginny had been cajoled into helping her mother cook dinner, and Sirius was in the attic, feeding Buckbeak the Hippogriff. The rest of the Order were either out on missions, or at their day jobs.

'Finally,' grumbled Ron as Hermione shut the door and joined them to sit on the bed across from the two boys. 'I've done so much work the last few days, I feel like a house-elf.'

'Well, now you know how it feels like, maybe you'll be more interested in S.P.E.W.!' said Hermione hopefully. She opened her mouth to continue, but Harry cut her off.

'Drop it, Hermione,' he said, and she shut her mouth with a soft snap, but directed a glare towards him. Harry ignored her.

'So…what d'you reckon?' asked Ron. Harry and Hermione didn't need him to explain to know what he was talking about. They hadn't had the chance to discuss what the Order had told them after dinner that night – they had been so busy with work and cleaning the house.

Before Harry could answer, Hermione turned to him; Harry was startled to see that her eyes were slightly watery.

'Did you mean it, Harry?' she asked tremulously. 'Did you mean what you said, about – about you against You-Know-Who?'

Harry stared at her. He had no idea how to respond to her – should he tell her what he really thought about it? That he was quite sure it would boil down to him against Voldemort? Or would it be too much for them? Then again, what good would it do to not tell them about this? Hadn't they stuck by him through everything?

He nodded, speaking over Hermione's horrified gasp and Ron's pensive look.

'It's more like Voldemort is going to keep coming after me until the end. I mean, he tried to kill me when I was just a baby. He all but said so that night…' he swallowed; talking about the graveyard was still an uncomfortable experience, 'he said he had tried to kill me, when he ended up losing his powers instead.'

By the end of it, Hermione was crying silently, and Ron looked as though he was fighting back tears of his own. Neither of them knew what to say – nor, for that matter, did Harry. He had never seen either of his friends get this emotional, and the less that was said about his ability to handle crying girls, the better. The fact that they were getting this worked up over his suspected eventual encounter with Voldemort meant so much to him…Harry couldn't think of a way to describe how he felt.

He settled for scooting across the bed and wrapping an arm around Hermione's shoulder, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder; his other arm clasped Ron's in a tight grip. They sat that way for several minutes, until Harry decided to pierce the veil of silence.

'I'm not going to die,' he said softly, trying to reassure both his friends, and to an extent, himself. 'In case you haven't noticed, Hermione, he hasn't had much luck in killing me so far.'

His quip earned a watery chuckle from Hermione, and a ghost of a grin on Ron's stoic face.

'Nor have his Death Eaters, for that matter. Certainly not the ones who tried at Privet Drive.'

They had learned from the Order that the three Death Eaters at Privet Drive were new recruits: eager to impress their new master and gain his favour, they had attempted to take Harry from Privet Drive that night without Voldemort's approval. Quite unfortunately for them, it backfired rather spectacularly: Harry still winced at the rage he had felt through his scar later that night – the unbridled rage of Voldemort which he had unleashed upon those three young wizards. Two of them were killed on the spot, and Harry privately thought the last one would be extremely lucky if he could ever walk again.

'And if I do go down…' he continued, his expression grim, 'I'm going to make sure he and his minions come with me.'

They said nothing more for another few minutes, then Hermione sat up, wiping the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. 'This is stupid – of course you're not going to die.'

'At least, not right now,' said Ron, but he was grinning.

'Ron!' said Hermione, sounding scandalised.

Harry sniggered at Hermione's expression. 'You are too easy to wind up, Hermione,' he teased.

'I am not!' she said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at both of them, who were now laughing out openly. She couldn't hold it for very long, though – their laughter was contagious, and soon, she joined them in their mirth.

Once they had subsided, Ron said, 'Anyway…what d'you two think?'

'Well, they didn't tell us much, did they?' said Harry, shifting into a comfortable position. 'Convincing people that Voldemort –' both Ron and Hermione flinched '– is back, trying to stop people from joining the Death Eaters…nothing new there.'

'Yeah, you're right,' said Ron. 'We got all that off the Extendable Ears, didn't we, Hermione?'

Hermione nodded. 'Yes. The only new bit was the mention of You-Know-Who's other plans…and something else that I noticed.'

'You did?' asked Ron. 'What's that now?'

'Well…I'm not really sure, but when Harry said it was going to be him against You-Know-Who, I saw Lupin and Sirius exchange looks – as though they knew something about it already.'

Ron stared at her. Harry, however, said, 'What, you think they know I'm going to have to face him in the end?'

'I know it sounds far-fetched, but strangely, it makes sense as well,' said Hermione. 'Doesn't it?'

'You're not making much sense to me at the moment,' said Ron. Hermione ignored him.

'They did the same thing when they mentioned the weapon, too,' she continued. 'It seems too much of a coincidence to me, to be honest.'

Harry thought on this for a moment. Did Sirius and Lupin really know what was going to happen? Were they already aware that he would have to face Voldemort at the end of it all? Or was it just that they knew Voldemort was after him?

That didn't make much sense to him either.

 _You've never made much sense._

 _ **Shut it.**_

'What intrigues me, though, are those 'other plans' that Sirius mentioned,' she went on.

'Let slip, more like,' said Ron. 'They never mentioned that when we eavesdropped on them, did we?'

'Is that what they're guarding, then?' asked Harry.

'Could be,' said Ron slowly, comprehension dawning on his face. 'Yeah, that could be it – guard duty for that weapon.'

'What kind of weapon could You-Know-Who possibly want that he didn't have last time?' asked Hermione, a slight frown on her face.

'Dunno,' said Harry. 'It's got to be really powerful if they're talking about guarding it all the time, though.'

'Blimey, I hope it's on our side,' said Ron.

'I wonder where they're hiding it,' mused Hermione.

The mention of the weapon being hidden had reminded Harry of something he'd wanted to ask Ron; he turned to his red-headed best friend and asked, 'You still haven't heard from her yet, have you?'

Ron looked at Harry for a moment, nonplussed, but then understood, and shook his head. 'Not a word since that letter two weeks ago.'

Harry frowned in concern. 'What d'you reckon happened to her?' he asked.

'Dunno,' said Ron with a shrug, but he too seemed a little worried. 'I haven't heard from the guys either. Maybe they've just gone on holiday?'

'Who on earth are you two talking about?' asked Hermione confusedly.

Harry stared at her. 'Iris Parkinson, of course. I thought you knew of our arrangement with her before we left Hogwarts last term.'

Hermione looked thoroughly bewildered at this pronouncement, so Harry and Ron took turns to explain what the two of them, Adrian, and Terence had come up with.

'She was to check in with either Ron or Adrian every week during the holidays,' said Harry. 'Just a simple letter that she was fine, no problems, that's all.'

'Adrian and I were getting them until two weeks ago, when it suddenly stopped,' continued Ron, picking at a loose thread on the bed covers, his blue eyes faintly tinged with anxiety. 'We agreed not to send anything to her place – it's too dangerous – so I can't even contact her.'

'And Adrian…' began Hermione, her sentence hanging questioningly.

'Is also out of contact, apparently,' replied Harry, as Ron nodded in confirmation. 'So is Terence.'

Hermione's eyes had widened slightly as she considered the implications of this news. Neither Adrian nor Terence were associated with the Death Eaters – their families had remained neutral before Voldemort's downfall in Godric's Hollow, and they had never publicly indicated otherwise, instead choosing to stay out of the way altogether. If they were not contactable…

And Iris Parkinson not reachable either – had she disappeared? Or worse…

'That is not good,' she declared.

'You don't say,' said Ron wryly. He had succeeded in pulling out a number of threads from the covers, and the hole in the sheets was now becoming bigger with his ministrations. 'I can't think of any manner by which I could contact them.'

'Never mind that,' said Hermione, a tad impatiently. 'What could have possibly happened to them?'

'I'm trying not to think about that, to be honest,' admitted Ron. 'Besides, I'd rather reach out to them and find out, than fret about it without a solution.'

Hermione looked at him with Harry could only surmise was an impressed expression – something that he was feeling as well. Ron had certainly grown up if he was now worrying about the welfare of Slytherins – a far cry from his behaviour at the start of their fourth year.

'I mean, it's not like I could simply Apparate over there and find out, is it?' Ron was continuing his verbal wondering about the possible options of contacting the Slytherins. 'They're bound to have some sort of wards that prevent us from getting in, of course. That's assuming I even know where they live.'

Hermione, meanwhile, was gnawing on her bottom lip in worry as she contemplated the problem. Harry did not doubt for a second that by now, she would have thought of over five different solutions – if not ten – but would have discarded them in the most logical manner possible. If there was one person who they could count on to find an answer, it was Hermione.

As Harry watched her absently, she began to rock back and forth slightly on the edge of the bed, her hands twisting in her lap. Her forehead was creased in a small frown, and she was muttering softly to herself.

' _It's not like I could simply Apparate over there and find out, is it?'_

' _I can't think of any manner by which I could contact them.'_

'… _some sort of wards that prevent us from getting in…'_

And, with the memory of a loud CRACK in the forefront of his mind, the answer came to Harry.

'Dobby,' he whispered.

 _CRACK!_

'Wha – AHH!'

'Harry Potter, sir!'

The three of them almost jumped out of their skins; and in Ron's case, quite literally out of the bed and onto the floor. With considerable shock surely reflected on his face, Harry looked at the diminutive form of Dobby the house-elf, who looked exactly as how he had last seen him in the Hogwarts kitchens in March, just before Easter: the pencil-shaped nose, bat-like ears, long fingers and feet, and the strangest ever assortment of garments and mismatched socks.

Dobby was beaming at him, tears of happiness brimming in his round, tennis-ball eyes – which was more than what could be said for his two friends: Ron, still on the floor, was massaging his arm on which he had landed, rather awkwardly; while Hermione's hand was over her heart, evidently trying to calm herself down from the shock appearance of Dobby.

'Dobby? But – how – I don't –' began Harry.

'Dobby heard Harry Potter call for him, sir,' said Dobby simply, as though that explained everything.

Harry stared at him. 'But how did you hear –'

It was Hermione who answered, in a voice that only just resembled her calm demeanour. 'House-elf magic is complicated, Harry. I suppose he realised you needed some help, didn't you, Dobby?' she asked, turning to the elf, who nodded brightly, his ears flapping as he did so.

Harry glanced at Ron, who looked as confused as Harry felt.

'But why did you ask for Dobby, Harry?' said Hermione.

Harry shook his head slightly before he responded, 'He can help us find out where Adrian, Terence and Iris are.' At their bewildered gazes, he elaborated. 'You said it yourself, Hermione: house-elf magic is complicated. But it's also different from our magic, so the wards won't detect him. Plus, he can make himself invisible without any trouble.'

His voice had risen in excitement as he finished – an emotion that didn't seem to be mirrored on his friends' faces. He snorted impatiently, then turned to Dobby.

'Could you do it, Dobby?' he asked.

'Harry Potter sir wants Dobby to find out what happened to Masters Adrian Pucey and Terence Higgs, and Miss Iris Parkinson?' At Harry's confirming nod, Dobby drew himself up to his full height – a sight in itself, as though a soldier was answering his general's call. 'Dobby will do it for Harry Potter, sir, Dobby will find out what has happened to them!'

'Excellent!' said Harry jubilantly. A moment later, he added, more out of caution than anything else, 'Just don't attract attention to yourself, Dobby. And don't be seen by anyone – just find out what's happened, and come back and tell us.'

'Dobby understands, Harry Potter, sir!' squeaked the little elf. 'Dobby is honoured that the great Harry Potter sir would ask him for his help – and Dobby will help him, of course!'

'Thanks, Dobby,' said Harry genuinely, and Dobby's eyes filled with tears again. A moment later, the elf Disapparated with another loud CRACK.

Ron stared at the spot where Dobby had been standing, and then back at Harry.

'Well…' he said, 'that's one problem solved.'

Before Harry or Hermione could say anything in response to that statement, muffled footsteps could be heard from outside the door. A second later, the door swung open, revealing a rather concerned looking Mrs Weasley.

'Is everything alright, dears?' she asked. Her eyes then fell upon Ron, still sprawled on the floor. 'What on earth are you doing on the floor, Ron?'

'Harry told him a joke, and he fell down from the bed while laughing,' said Hermione promptly, before Ron could respond. Harry and Ron stared at her, half-shocked, and half-impressed.

'Well, you'd better wash your hands before you come down for dinner, they look filthy. Same goes for you two,' she added, retreating from the room. 'Dinner will be ready in five minutes, so I expect you all down there by then.'

'We'll be there, Mrs Weasley, thank you,' said Harry with a smile, which Mrs Weasley returned before shutting the door with a snap.

Ron gaped at Hermione, his face a mixture of pride and astonishment. 'You just _lied_ – to my mum!'

'Well, you didn't expect me to tell her the truth, did you?' huffed Hermione a little defensively. 'She wouldn't have appreciated the explanation that another house-elf was here, who we've now sent on some espionage mission, would she?'

'Espi – what?'

'Oh, never mind,' said Hermione with another huff. She stood up and made her way to the door. 'Come on, let's go.'

Ron watched her go, before turning to Harry, a full-blown grin on his face.

'We've finally corrupted her!' he declared enthusiastically.

Harry gave an amused snort as he followed Hermione down for dinner.

* * *

At dinner that night, Mrs Weasley informed them all that they would finally tackle the drawing room the next day. She had been trying to put it off until Moody came around to have a look at the writing desk – which she was sure housed a Boggart – but with nearly the rest of the house having been made almost fit for human inhabitation, there seemed to be no reason to postpone it any longer.

And so, after they had breakfasted quickly, Harry and Ron entered the drawing room, a long, high-ceilinged room on the first floor of the house with olive-green walls covered in dirty tapestries. Harry could see little puffs of dust rise into the air every time someone stepped on the carpet – just like it had been in the hallway below – and the long, moss-green velvet curtains were buzzing as though swarming with angry, invisible bees.

 _Merlin, this place is a mess._

 _ **Understatement of the century.**_

'What has that house-elf been up to?' he wondered out loud, just as Sirius entered the room with a bloodstained bag of dead rats.

'Nothing,' he said grimly, dropping the bag on an armchair, which exhaled a rather large cloud of dust and dirt. 'Hasn't cleaned this place properly for ten years, not since my mother died.'

Harry saw Hermione give Sirius a rather reproachful look.

'Kreacher's quite old,' she said, 'he probably couldn't manage –'

'You'd be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione,' said Sirius sharply. Hermione fell silent, but still looked a bit disgruntled at the lack of sympathy being displayed towards Kreacher.

Harry had run into Kreacher more than once during the course of their cleaning spree, and he had to agree with Sirius: despite being really old and feeble, the house-elf seemed to be more than capable of maintaining those places which he felt were worth his time. Harry had spotted him one evening cleaning the large portrait of Mrs Black, muttering quietly to himself about 'blood-traitors' and 'shame of the family'.

'Come over here, you lot,' called out Mrs Weasley, and Harry, Ron, and Sirius made their way carefully across the room to join the rest of them near the buzzing curtains. She pointed them to three tea towels and three large bottles of black liquid with nozzles at their ends. 'Cover your faces and take a spray,' she continued. 'It's Doxycide, we're going to spray the curtains with this. Be careful though – they're likely to come out at us, but the book says one good spray would do it. When they're unconscious, throw them in this bucket.'

Spraying the Doxies was strangely satisfying in a way, thought Harry, as they began squirting the Doxycide at the little creatures that came flying out of the curtains. It reminded Harry of de-gnoming the garden outside the Burrow, only that the fresh summer air and the smell of Mrs Weasley's cooking wafting along the gentle breeze was replaced by the dank, dark and gloomy house that was number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and the stench of mouldy furniture, clothes, and, in their present state, Doxycide-infested curtains. Still, the fact that he was actually doing something, instead of twiddling his thumbs and being cut off from everyone else – like he had been at Privet Drive – was definitely a plus point. Even if he wasn't directly helping the Order in their efforts against Voldemort, it felt good to be part of a larger group once again.

Harry felt especially glad when Fred and George informed him about their burgeoning plans for their joke shop. He had forced them into accepting his Triwizard Tournament winnings at the end of last year, and was pleased to see that they had been utilising those funds the way they wanted. Harry still felt that, as he had done at that time, they all needed a laugh these days. At least Fred and George now had the capacity and money to do so – which could only be a good thing. The fact that Mrs Weasley was still unaware of his part in helping them further their plans was, in Harry's opinion, most welcome; he had no intention of upsetting her once more that summer.

Once they had cleaned out the curtains – which now hung limp and damp from their intensive spraying – and the unconscious Doxies were unceremoniously gathered in the bucket to the side (Harry saw Fred and George shoot covetous looks at it when their mother wasn't looking), they trooped downstairs for lunch. Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley were there as well, and they all had a relaxed meal with the two Aurors and the tired looking werewolf.

'Will you be joining us in the afternoon, Remus, Tonks?' asked Mrs Weasley, as she ladled out steaming stew for them. 'What about you, Kingsley?'

'Can't stay long, Molly,' replied Kingsley in his deep voice. 'Scrimgeour's been asking us funny questions – wants to know where we've been going.'

'Oh yeah,' said Tonks. 'He was especially interested in what happened with the Death Eaters at Privet Drive that night.'

'D'you think Scrimgeour could be swayed to our side?' asked Mr Weasley interestedly.

Tonks and Kingsley shared a glance before the latter responded. 'I don't think so, Arthur,' he said. 'His inquiries were more for why Tonks was there, of all places.'

'It was my day off,' said Tonks defensively. 'They shouldn't care what I'm doing on my day off.'

'We know, dear,' said Mrs Weasley soothingly.

Lupin had to head out once again too, so once they finished lunch, the three adults in questions said their goodbyes to the rest – quietly enough, so as to not wake up Mrs Black's portrait or draw Kreacher's attention. Then, Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and Sirius returned to the drawing room. With a flick of her wand, Mrs Weasley removed the damp curtains and sent them zooming downstairs for her to launder later. That job done, she turned to the dusty, glass-fronted cabinets on either side of the mantelpiece.

'Right, everyone ready?' she asked. 'Let's get to it, then.'

Emptying the cabinets was a lot of hard work, and required a lot of concentration, as many of the objects in there seemed very reluctant to leave their dusty shelves. A very odd assortment of objects there were, too – a selection of rusty daggers that, when held, let out a slight hum, though nobody could figure out why; a coiled snakeskin that reminded Harry a bit of the Basilisk snakeskin lying before the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts, partly due to its green tinge, and tarnished silver boxes which were inscribed with languages Harry could not understand. One of them turned out to be a rather vicious snuffbox, which promptly decided to bite Sirius when he reached for it, causing his skin to develop an unpleasant crusty covering like a tough brown glove. Harry noticed Fred and George eyeing the box with interest, even as Sirius healed his skin with a tap of his wand.

It seemed that they had picked a rather busy day to clean the drawing room: Mrs Weasley had to be called away several times to answer the door by Hestia Jones – who was relaxing in the dining room below, while Sirius inevitably ended up hurrying downstairs after her to close the curtains around his mother's portrait. The frequent breaks slowed their progress, but it served as a great source of entertainment for them. Fred had managed to snag a few Extendable Ears from his room during a particularly long break, trying to listen in on the whispered conversations downstairs. They didn't get much, however, but with the frequency of visitors hurrying in and out of the house, they figured something big was happening.

'D'you reckon someone's been captured?' asked Ron, as Mrs Weasley and Sirius hurried downstairs yet again.

'If they have, I hope it's a Death Eater,' said Fred.

'As long as it's not someone from our side,' said Ginny.

'Oh, don't say _that_ ,' said Hermione worriedly.

At that moment, Mrs Weasley returned, slightly out of breath at having to climb up and down so many times. Sirius trailed after her, an odd expression on his face that Harry couldn't place – was it worry?

'Well,' panted Mrs Weasley, 'let's hope that's the last of the visitors for now. Right you lot, come along.' And with surprising vigour, she resumed the cleaning of the cabinets.

Mrs Weasley's hopes were fulfilled – they encountered no more interruptions from visitors to the house after that. They did, however, have to contend with Kreacher, who sidled into the room several times and attempted to smuggle things out under his loincloth. They almost always caught him at it though, with the house-elf muttering furious curses under his breath when Sirius forced him to leave the room after every such incident. These interruptions, while not as frequent or long-lasting as the ones caused by the stream of visitors earlier, nevertheless broke their rhythm of cleaning.

This became particularly irksome when they had to battle on two fronts – against Kreacher, and against the items themselves. A many-legged pair of tweezers scuttled across the mantelpiece like a spider in a desperate bid for freedom, and jumped onto George's outstretched arm when he had tried to catch it; thankfully, Fred and Ginny were able to seize it and smash it with a truly ancient looking book. A closer inspection by Hermione revealed it to be _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ , which she picked up with a look of awe and reverence on her face.

'I've always wanted to read this,' she whispered softly, staring at the cover. 'Could I borrow it, Sirius?'

Sirius shrugged. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Not like I need it anyway.'

Hermione's face lit up, and after she placed the book carefully to the side, she returned to help them, her expression betraying her excitement at finally getting to read that book.

It was almost evening by the time they finally finished with the cabinets; at long last, Mrs Weasley called a halt to their efforts, declaring it a job well done for the day. The cabinets were not clean, but they were certainly empty – Mrs Weasley and Sirius had ensured they scoured every nook and cranny of those dusty old cupboards, determined not to leave anything behind. The results were now three bulging sacks of discarded items and debris near the entrance to the room, with a few more finding their way into Fred and George's pockets.

The twins, being of age and legally allowed to use magic outside of school, volunteered to levitate the sacks down to the basement, where the rest of the rubbish collected from the other rooms was being stored until the Order could properly dispose of them. It was just as the entire group descended the stairs to the first floor landing, the twins and Sirius in the lead with their wands pointing at the floating sacks, that several things happened at once.

Out of the blue, a silvery form burst into the house from the front door, startling everyone into jumps, shrieks, and hurriedly drawn wands. The shock of the Patronus' sudden appearance caused the three levitators to lose their concentration – the sacks succumbed to gravity and crashed to the floor, a few of their contents scattering in all directions. Hestia Jones charged in from the dining room, her wand drawn and ready to start cursing anything that wasn't supposed to be there.

In the midst of all this, the Patronus shifted to a form of a cat, which spoke quickly and urgently in McGonagall's voice.

' _Molly, please prepare for their arrival. Albus and I are coming now.'_

It was a good thing the message was quick, for no sooner did it end, that the curtains covering Mrs Black flung open – the crashes and screams had woken her up, and she began to shriek at once.

' _Filth! Scum! How dare you befoul the noble house of my fathers!'_

Sirius hurried over to draw the curtains over her portrait, even as her yells woke the other portraits up, and they began screaming too, adding to the cacophony echoing around the hall. Hestia rushed to help Sirius, while Fred and George began stunning the other portraits to sleep.

'Oh my,' said Mrs Weasley breathlessly, her hand over her heart. She seemed rooted to the spot – Harry could tell that the sudden announcement by McGonagall had rattled her, and she was unsure as to what to do.

Even as the noise level reduced with the efforts of Fred and George – Sirius and Hestia were having little luck with Mrs Black themselves – the diminutive form of Kreacher appeared in the area. Spotting the rubbish strewn across the floor, he gave an audible croak of joy, and, with speed that defied his age, bounded forward to save what he could. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny could only watch, being just as surprised as everyone else, as the house-elf pocketed a few ancient rings and seals, the distinctive box that held the Order of Merlin, First Class, that had been awarded to Sirius' father, and curiously, a heavy locket with an ornate engraving of the letter 'S' upon it – one that none of them was able to open.

It was to this scene that Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, with the new guests in tow; as they entered the house and came into the vision of everyone else, more than a few jaws fell open.

For one, the new guests look startled at who their expected hosts were – especially the alleged mass murderer on the run from the Ministry for the last two years.

For another, Albus Dumbledore was shocked at the sight of Kreacher clutching the heavy locket, muttering quite audibly under his breath, 'Master Regulus' locket, Kreacher must destroy it, Kreacher will not allow the blood-traitors to take it from him…'

And finally, Harry's mouth literally fell open as he stared at the girl with blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes.

'Daphne?!'

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	6. A Greengrass Interlude

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 5: A Greengrass Interlude**

* * *

 **Author's Note: A treat for the faithful readers of this series – a fresh update this week, because it's my birthday today! Yay – happy birthday to me! :)**

 **Anyway, now that we've seen what Harry did, let's have a look at what Daphne was doing. Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _It was to this scene that Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, with the new guests in tow; as they entered the house and came into the vision of everyone else, more than a few jaws fell open._

 _For one, the new guests look startled at who their expected hosts were – especially the alleged mass murderer on the run from the Ministry for the last two years._

 _For another, Albus Dumbledore was shocked at the sight of Kreacher clutching the heavy locket, muttering quite audibly under his breath, 'Master Regulus' locket, Kreacher must destroy it, Kreacher will not allow the blood-traitors to take it from him…'_

 _And finally, Harry's mouth literally fell open as he stared at the girl with blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes._

' _Daphne?!'_

* * *

'Time for dinner, Daphne!'

'Coming, Mum!'

Daphne shut the door of her wardrobe, looked herself over in the mirror one last time, then hurried downstairs to the dining room. Her parents were already there, and so was her sister, waiting for Dory, their house-elf, to finish serving them.

For a few minutes, there was no other sound except for the chink of cutlery against their plates, and the soft vibrations that came from the glasses of water being placed on the table after a sip. Daphne quite liked the silence – she had never warmed up to the loud and boisterous meals that were the hallmark at Hogwarts. She rather preferred the contemplative and peaceful quiet that came with having dinner with her family: it was one of the reasons why, while at Hogwarts, she usually had her meals by herself, or with Tracey, before the bulk of the school arrived.

And then, Dory popped in beside her father, looking anxious and worried.

'What is it, Dory?' asked her mother, Isabella, in a kind voice. 'What happened?'

'There be guests at the gate, Mistress,' squeaked the tiny elf, her eyes wide with worry. 'They be wanting to see Master right away.'

The silence up till then, which had been companionable, almost cheerful, was replaced by tension-filled stillness. Activity and movement paused almost at once on Dory's words, as slowly, everyone turned to look at Jonathan Greengrass, the head of the family.

Jonathan laid down his fork and knife near his plate, his face an inscrutable mask. He was never one to show his emotions too much, and even if he did so, it was always in private, and it was always because of a significant situation. Like the birth of Astoria, when her mother had had complications while she was in labour; or the death of his father, Cygnus Greengrass II, a formidable politician and a doting family man.

It seemed as though this occasion warranted it too: the mask fell away, to be replaced by a hard, cold look that Daphne had only once seen upon her father's visage. Three years ago, Lucius Malfoy was the recipient of the severe stare when he had tried to get her father to sign a marriage contract between House Greengrass and House Malfoy. Naturally, he had been unsuccessful, and was forced to leave while his pride was still intact.

If only looks could kill…Malfoy Senior certainly wouldn't have survived that meeting.

Nor would this evening's visitors, for that matter.

 _If only…_

'Isabella, Daphne, Tori,' said Jonathan, his voice low and surprisingly steady, 'please return to your rooms.'

'Who are they, Father?' asked Astoria, but Jonathan shook his head.

'No one you should concern yourself with, Tori,' he said curtly, even as he stood up. Everyone else followed suit, their dinner – which was almost over in any case – all but forgotten. 'Please, do as I say.'

Daphne saw him exchange a look with her mother. Isabella gave a nod of understanding, then began to chivvy them to their bedrooms upstairs, while Jonathan headed towards the front door. The dining room wasn't too far from it, and soon enough, they heard the door open, then shut close with a soft click.

She looked up at her mother and was startled to see lines of worry etched across her beautiful face. For as long as Daphne could remember, Isabella never allowed her daughters to see her worry or anxiety over anything, choosing instead to project a strong and happy face to them. She had figured out the façade after a while – she had seen the mask slip in private several times – but this was the first time it had happened in public.

'What's wrong, Mum?' asked Astoria. She looked young and scared, a lot different from her usual tough exterior. Another quality that her younger sister had inherited from their mother.

Isabella schooled her face into a comforting expression, more for Astoria's benefit than anything else. 'Nothing, Tori dear. Your father…well, I just hope he's careful.'

To their astonishment, Astoria grinned. 'I don't think you need to worry about Father, Mum. I'd be more worried about those guests, to be honest.'

Isabella let out a shaky chuckle and steered Astoria to her room, with Daphne following behind them, staring at her sister with a mixture of shock and awe.

 _Remind me never to get on Astoria's wrong side._

* * *

The atmosphere inside Greengrass Manor was decidedly edgy in the few days following the unexpected visit by those 'guests'. Jonathan Greengrass had not said anything to his daughters about the discussion he had had, but Daphne could see it in his face: the slight line of worry, the anxious furrow of his brow. She prided herself on the ability to read people's emotions – it was a diktat that one had to abide by while in Slytherin House – and her father was no different, despite his usual closed-off personality.

She had, in any case, caught snippets of her parents' conversation on the subject, two days later, while passing her father's study on her way to her room. Jonathan spent a lot of time in his study, either reading some obscure, ancient books, meeting visitors, or reading up on his potential visitors. _'Know thy friend and enemy,'_ he always told Daphne – and she made sure to heed his advice, especially while at school.

The heavy panelled door to the study was usually shut during these times, but today, it had been left slightly ajar. As she passed it, she heard the words _'Death Eaters'_ , causing her to stop in her tracks and stare at the study. Were those the 'guests' who had turned up two nights ago? What had they wanted that had caused her parents to display such anxiety in public – a rare action in the best of times?

Most importantly for her: _ought she to go and find out?_

She took a step towards the study, then stopped, her foot slightly in the air, ready to take the next pace. Her ears strained for another sound behind her, but it was all quiet. Astoria was in her room, doing her homework – for a change, thought Daphne. There was no one else at home, save the house-elves, who were bound to be in the kitchen, preparing their dinner.

Another step, and memories of her last attempts at stalking and eavesdropping on a conversation flooded her mind. A slight blush stained her cheeks as she realised the common factor in both cases: Harry Potter. Both times, he had been a target of her spying activities last year: once with Ludo Bagman before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, and then in Hogsmeade, when she followed him, Ron, and Hermione to the outskirts of the village, only for them to meet a dog they called Sirius.

 _Focus, Daphne…_

It was remarkable how easily distracted she could get over the mention of the Gryffindor boy; more interestingly, how much her inner voice sounded like Harry himself.

They had barely exchanged a handful of words in person during their last school year, and had written to each other this summer for a grand total of five times each. As much as she could read a person's emotions and thoughts with a look, Daphne had to partially concede defeat when it came to Harry: despite knowing how his mind worked, he had more secrets than an average Potions Master, zealously guarding his information lest he be tricked into revealing recipes and selling priceless ingredients.

But the letters…now those were a delight. Daphne couldn't help but smile as she recalled the words they had exchanged with each other. Like a soothing balm to cracked skin, Harry was able to make her laugh, feel exasperated, think pensively, and smile fondly in just one letter. Not that he was great shakes at writing, but the effect was there nevertheless.

And she welcomed it with open arms. Finally, here was someone, apart from her friends, who appreciated her for who she was, rather than how she looked. Someone who knew the perils and trials of being famous for something you had no control over; someone who could look at her, and look _through_ her, to her very soul.

How they got to this stage – from awkward, stolen glances and waves, to full-fledged, normal conversations through letters – she wasn't quite sure. Daphne supposed it was the lack of pressure from conforming to their House images, along with a desire to interact and connect with each other. She knew Harry was feeling very lonely right now, and she couldn't blame him for it – she would have felt the same way if she was stuck in the Muggle world.

Would they continue with this once they met in school, or on the train? Or would they revert to their previous awkwardness and restrictions in personal interactions? She hoped it would be the former – she didn't think she would be able to restrain herself from openly talking to him. Nor would the other members of her House do anything to jeopardise what she had with Harry – she was adamant on that, too.

 _C'mon Daphne…focus, now…_

The inner voice of Harry was chuckling silently. Daphne huffed at it, mentally berating herself for getting distracted – again – then tip-toed silently to stand just outside the study, making sure that she couldn't be seen. She didn't need to see her parents, anyway; she knew them well enough to imagine their body language and reactions.

'Did they want anything else, Jonathan?' her mum was asking.

'Nothing else. They were, like I said, quite insistent on their main demand,' her father replied.

'I'm just glad they didn't curse you when you refused.'

'They wouldn't dare to do that in my own house, Izzy,' said Jonathan. 'Firstly, the wards wouldn't let them, and secondly, it would have been a public mess. A random, unprovoked attack by Lucius Malfoy and others on the House of Greengrass? No…Lucius is too smart and slippery for that.'

Daphne almost slipped in surprise. _Lucius Malfoy_ was the guest, along with a few friends? What on earth could they have wanted with her father? What would Death Eaters want with their family?

Her father had refused – what? To join the ranks? To help them get funds, or other items of interest?

'I still don't understand why they would come to us now, all of a sudden,' her mother said. Daphne could imagine her mother's face, with a furrowed brow, thinking over her statement. 'Especially after your father refused Abraxas the first time, all those years ago.'

'I'm as puzzled as you are, Izzy,' said Jonathan. A slight creak told Daphne he was seated on his chair behind his study desk; she was ready to wager five Galleons that he would have his hands in front of him, fingertips touching and forming a sort of steeple. 'The Dark Lord would not want his return to be made public so soon.'

'Did he say so, then? Did he actually take his master's name?'

There was a pause, then, 'Not exactly, no. He just said he needed my help, and would return next week to give me more details.'

'Not much of a sharing person, is he?'

'No, that he is not.'

Silence fell again. Then, Isabella said, 'Do you believe it, then? Do you think he's back?'

'Yes,' said Jonathan, so quickly in response that Daphne almost jumped. 'I see no reason to believe otherwise, even if the evidence is circumstantial at best.'

'Dumbledore's word, then?'

'I wouldn't trust Cornelius Fudge with anything, Izzy. Not when Lucius has him so firmly entrenched in his pocket.' There was a tone of disgust as Jonathan finished.

Silence. Then, 'What do we tell Daphne and Tori?'

It seemed like a difficult question for Jonathan to answer, as he took a long while before responding. 'Nothing for now. It is a one-off incident, there isn't a need for them to know anything.'

'But…' her mum hesitated. 'The Malfoy boy at Hogwarts, Jon…he's in Slytherin too, with the girls –'

'They should have nothing to fear, Izzy,' said Jonathan firmly. 'Daphne can take care of herself quite well, and Astoria is more than a match for anyone. We raised our girls to be strong and independent – I see no reason why they should fear anybody.'

Daphne knew her father was proud of his two daughters, but this was the first time he had openly expressed it – even if it was only to his wife. Her heart warmed at the statement, and she fought the sudden desire to rush in and hug her father.

'Listen, Izzy,' her father continued; another creak told her that he had stood up, and was making his way across the room. 'I just don't want to worry them. Daphne will brood over it for ages, and Astoria is too temperamental for her own good.'

Daphne almost let out an involuntary chuckle at that – her father was right, after all. She tended to over-think and over-analyse anything and everything that happened to her – the pre-Yule Ball fiasco was a prime example. As for her sister…Daphne often wondered how she hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor. She was so hot-headed, and tended to charge into a situation without thinking about the available options first.

 _Foolish bravery…with extraordinary ambition._

She shook her head, then quickly beat a hasty retreat to her room as she heard noises indicating that the discussion was over in the study. The conversation had given her a lot to think about, but she knew she had to do one thing first: write to Harry.

* * *

There was a return to normalcy in the Greengrass household over the next few days after 'the visit', as Daphne had termed it in her head. After breakfast with the family, her father headed out of the house for his own work. She had never understood what it was that he did – she recently figured it had something to do with politics, voting, and the Wizengamot. Jonathan Greengrass was a man who preferred to leave his work outside the house, or within the confines of his study, and rarely discussed it with his family.

Her mother, on the other hand, had no so qualms of sharing her work with her family. She was an independent magical researcher, and occupied a study of her own in the vast Manor for undertaking her projects. Her topics were spread across multiple fields: the occurrence of magical genes in Muggle-born children, the simultaneous use of two wands by the same caster, and even, at times, development and testing of new spells. Daphne had occasionally helped her mother in some of the research, and found it quite fascinating; so much so that, from a very young age, she had made up her mind to follow Isabella Greengrass' footsteps into independent research.

Daphne's summer routine was, by all standards, as normal as one could expect. Summer homework after breakfast, then lunch, followed by a little extra reading in her O.W.L. subjects, catching up with her correspondence, a stroll around the gardens surrounding the Manor, a little free time with her sister, dinner, and then DDT – Daphne's Diary Time. Weekends, however, often signalled a relaxation in the form of visits from Tracey and Blaise, or she Flooing to their homes. She didn't have any other friends whom she could spend time with – not that she minded, of course; she preferred the quiet solitude and standard routine over an unpredictable schedule.

Tracey came over to Greengrass Manor during the weekend after 'the visit', and after the usual exchange of pleasantries with Daphne's parents, she was immediately dragged up to Daphne's room, where Daphne wasted no time in telling her about the unexpected guests who had turned up at the Manor, and the overheard conversation of her parents.

Tracey let out a low whistle when Daphne finished.

'Wow,' she said softly. 'So…your parents believe Dumbledore then? And Potter, too?'

Daphne nodded.

'Wow,' said Tracey again.

'You've said that already,' Daphne pointed out.

'I know,' said Tracey. 'It's just…I didn't expect your family to come out with its allegiance this quickly.'

'I – wait, what?' asked Daphne, startled slightly at Tracey's statement. 'What do you mean, come out with our allegiance? We haven't said anything about it yet.'

'Well, yeah, I know, but you'll have to do it soon, one way or the other,' said Tracey with a shrug. 'I wouldn't put it past old Lucius Malfoy to come back again for another friendly visit, you know? And if your Dad turns him down again…' she trailed off.

Daphne sat back on her bed, contemplating the words of her best friend. She was right…in a way: if her father did refuse Malfoy one more time, the Dark Lord would know where their allegiance lay, and would either mark them down for something, or seek to eliminate them altogether…

 _Or would he?_

'I don't think the Dark Lord would do it,' said Daphne.

'Do what?'

'He wouldn't do anything against us, even if we do say no to Malfoy when he comes. That's assuming he does show up, of course.'

'Please, Daph, that's a given,' said Tracey, waving her hands dismissively. 'Do you honestly believe Malfoy would accept no for an answer? Or even the Dark Lord, for that matter?'

'Alright, alright,' conceded Daphne. 'So he does show up, fine. So what if we say no?'

Tracey stared at her as though she'd grown an extra head. Daphne pointedly ignored it, and continued.

'Malfoy won't do anything on his own, not now that he's resumed his true employment with the Dark Lord. That gives us some measure of safety, not to mention the reaction of the wards against any attack on the Head of our family.'

'Yes…' said Tracey slowly.

'Plus, the Dark Lord wouldn't do anything to risk himself coming out into the open, would he? You heard the whispers in the common room last term – they all said Harry messed it up.'

Tracey nodded, acknowledging the truth in Daphne's words. The Slytherin common room had indeed been full of whispers and murmurs regarding the Dark Lord's return – how he had wanted it to be a secret, and how Harry Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, had spoiled it by returning to Hogwarts alive.

'But still…' insisted Tracey, 'this is the Dark Lord we're talking about! The Dark Lord, for goodness sake!' Her voice had increased a notch in tone, as she became a little hysterical. 'Do you really expect to be able to avoid him forever?'

Daphne pursed her lips thoughtfully. No one could accuse her of being unintelligent, but this question of Tracey's had definitely stumped her. It was well known among the wizarding community that if the Dark Lord was after you, it was only a matter of time before he finally got to you. No one could survive coming up against him time and again…no one, except Harry Potter.

'No,' she admitted. 'I don't think we can, but then again…I don't think we need to.'

They fell silent for a while after that, not wishing to continue the discussion on this topic any further. After finishing a tasty and filling lunch, they returned to Daphne's room, whereupon Daphne asked something she'd been meaning to ask Tracey for a while.

'Have you heard from Iris? Or the boys?'

Tracey shook her head. 'None of them have reached out to me since term ended.'

'Oh,' said Daphne, a little surprised at that. 'Well, you're aware of the arrangement, right?'

'No…' said Tracey. 'What arrangement?'

Daphne stared at her.

' _What_ arrangement, Daph?'

'B-but, I thought you knew!'

'Well, I don't, but I will, if you tell me what it is!'

'We're checking in on her every week. Well, she's checking in with Ron or Adrian at least, but I try writing to her whenever I can, you know? Just – just to keep her mind off…things.'

It was Tracey's turn to stare at Daphne, her eyes wide.

'How is it that you didn't know about this?'

'Well, no one told me, did they?!'

'I thought Blaise told you!'

' _Blaise_ knows, too? Oh, that's great, just great…' and Tracey promptly got into an episode of constant muttering and grumbling that took a while to subside, even with Daphne alternately apologising and explaining.

'That's why I asked you about her. I met her last week, but I haven't heard from her since my last letter three days ago.'

Tracey shrugged, still looking slightly put out over the whole thing. Daphne ignored the dramatics – her best friend was likely to be like this for another ten minutes, before the whole thing would be glossed over and brushed under the carpet.

'Anyway, I've asked Harry if he's heard anything from Ron – he'll tell me if he has.'

Tracey's countenance brightened immediately. 'Still in touch with Harry, then?' She was sporting a wicked grin on her face that Daphne narrowed her eyes at. 'Are you dating then?'

'Don't you have any other business?'

'I'm in your house, aren't I? You already know the answer to that question.' She grinned more evilly, in Daphne's opinion. 'Now c'mon, spill!'

Daphne groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment before looking out the window, hoping that she could ignore Tracey's existence and her determination to pursue this topic for the time being. It was a lost cause, obviously – no one could possibly ignore Tracey's existence, especially if they were in the same room; and as for her zeal to get to the bottom of things, it was unmatched by anyone at school. Unless physically impossible, Tracey was never one to back down from a challenge.

Daphne tried diverting her friend's attention away from the topic, but was unsuccessful, if Tracey's insistence was anything to go by. Finally, looking to stall it for as long as possible, she convinced her friend to join her for a walk in the gardens around Greengrass Manor.

The Greengrass estate was modestly expansive, but not large by any means. Most of it was dominated by the huge Manor that stood, impressively, in the middle of the property. Surrounding it were the grounds, upon which several species of flora were grown and cultivated by the dedicated gardening house-elves of the House: Mipsy and Tibby. They had planted a mixture of both Muggle and wizarding plants – sunflowers alongside dittany, agapanthuses circling a Wiggentree, rows of chrysanthemums adjacent to lines of Molys, and, for some reason yet unknown to Daphne, a Whomping Willow sapling.

Daphne and Tracey made sure to give the tiny Willow a large berth as they strolled across the grounds; in any case, they kept to the relative shade afforded by the large Manor, not wishing to expose themselves to the unusually intense sun. As it was, the summer's day was too hot, and they ended up returning inside within ten minutes, sweat dripping from their brows and down their necks.

'So…' began Tracey, after they had washed up and sequestered themselves in Daphne's room. 'You were going to tell me something.'

Daphne sighed, conceding defeat at last. 'No, we aren't dating.'

Tracey gave her a sympathetic look, mistaking her sigh for an expression of disappointment. 'It's alright, he'll come around. I suppose he'll ask you out this year.'

Daphne looked up at her. 'What makes you so sure of that?'

'Oh c'mon Daph, surely you aren't this blind!' exclaimed Tracey. 'The boy is completely taken with you – anyone with half a brain could see that from last year.'

Daphne bit her lip. She _had_ noticed the covert stares and glances he'd manage to cop at her last year, even while she'd been doing the same. It had only increased after their dance at the Yule Ball – the intimate, amazing, wonderfully slow dance.

A dreamy expression came over Daphne's face, and Tracey sniggered. 'You've got it so bad! Tell me, has he said anything in his letters? Has he told you how much he means to you?'

The question seemed to snap Daphne out of her reverie, and she glared half-heartedly at Tracey. 'I'm not telling you that!'

'You're no fun,' said Tracey with a pout. 'I thought you would at least tell me, you know.' She gave an innocent smile. 'I mean, we have been friends for ages after all, we're practically family. And you've always shared everything with me, you know I'd do the same…'

Her smile grew wider as she spoke, and Daphne groaned. Another perfect example of Tracey's persistence, coupled with her unusually good skills at emotional blackmail.

'Alright, alright!' said Daphne finally. Tracey beamed as Daphne went across to her desk and pulled out a stack of letters from the top drawer. She rifled through them and handed a few over to Tracey, whose arm was outstretched, her expression eager. She'd already finished reading two of them by the time Daphne placed the rest back in the drawer and returned to sit across her on the bed.

'Oh, wow,' breathed Tracey as she read through Harry's more recent correspondences. '"I honestly don't know how I'm going to get past these six weeks without any letter or communication from you…I can't wait to see you…" she looked up at Daphne. 'You still doubt his feelings? These aren't the words used by friends, Daph!'

'I don't doubt his feelings,' replied Daphne, a bit nettled by the insinuation. 'I just…I'm not sure if he'd want to take it forward this year.'

Her voice hitched at the last word, and she hurriedly wiped her eyes free of the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She needed to get a grip on herself – she was a Slytherin! A daughter of the House of Greengrass! She couldn't afford to have an emotional break-down every time she thought about him.

 _It's so hard…_

'Oh, Daph,' whispered Tracey sympathetically, wrapping her arms around the blonde in a tight hug. 'It's alright, don't worry. I'm sure he will want to do it, you see.'

Daphne drew back, her eyes still glistening slightly. 'But with the Dark Lord around?' she whispered.

'Even with the Dark Lord around,' said Tracey firmly. 'Just you wait – he's going to be so happy to see you on the train. You'd better make it worth it,' she added, with a hugely suggestive wink.

'Eurgh, Tracey, I didn't need those images in my head!' exclaimed Daphne, as Tracey collapsed backwards onto the bed, laughing loudly.

* * *

The one main positive out of Tracey's visit was that it had cheered up Daphne considerably. The auburn-haired girl had managed to reassure Daphne and address her insecurities regarding Harry and their potential relationship. It had the effect of Daphne having a blissful sleep that night, and entering the dining room for breakfast the next morning with a content grin on her face.

'Good morning all,' she said brightly as she took her seat at the table. Dory immediately hurried over with a tray and began serving her porridge.

Astoria took one look at her sister and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'You're too happy this morning.'

Daphne nodded. 'I slept well.'

'That's good to hear,' said Isabella, a soft smile on her face. 'Didn't you sleep well, Tori?'

'Clearly not as well as Daphne did, if her bliss is any indication,' said Astoria. 'What did you do?'

'Me? I did nothing,' said Daphne. 'I'm just glad that I could sleep well. It's a good thing, you know.'

Jonathan Greengrass was scanning the _Daily Prophet_ as his two daughters bantered back and forth.

'Anything of note, Jon?' asked Isabella.

'Nothing,' he replied shortly. 'Thank you, Dory,' he added kindly, as the diminutive elf reached up to take his plate away. 'No change yet.'

Isabella nodded. Thankfully, her girls were still talking about Daphne's unusual expression of contentment, and had missed the exchange.

A small crash came from the kitchen. Isabella left the table to investigate – it was likely that Dory had dropped a few pots and pans in her eagerness to carry more than she could manage. When she returned to the dining room, however, she was sporting an unusually serious – bordering on worry – expression.

'Jon,' she said. Her voice quivered slightly, and in an instant, the room became silent; Daphne, Astoria, and Jonathan turned to look at her.

'What is it, Izzy?'

'They've come again, Jon.'

Jonathan stood up so fast his chair was almost knocked backwards. He stared at his wife, as though searching her face for a confirmation of any other facts – or perhaps to check if it was a colossal joke – but he found none. He nodded grimly.

'Very well,' he said. 'Please return to your rooms. I will meet with them.'

'I shall join you,' said Isabella, but Jonathan shook his head.

'No,' he said curtly, but firmly. 'Please stay with the girls.'

Isabella looked like she wanted to protest, but nodded anyway, and hurriedly ushered Daphne and Astoria out of the dining room and towards their rooms.

'Are these the same people, Mum?' asked Astoria, as they made their way up the stairs to the first floor.

'I don't know, Tori,' replied Isabella. They reached the landing, and she steered the girls to one of the many spare, but fully furnished bedrooms on the floor.

'Why are we –' started Astoria, but Daphne gave her a quick look and shook her head. Astoria got the hint at once and closed her mouth.

They waited in silence, with a myriad of emotions coursing through each of them. Daphne, who had been utterly content and peaceful earlier that morning, now felt tense and worried. She cast a concerned look at her mother, who was staring out the window onto the open grounds of the Greengrass estate. A quick mental calibration of their location told Daphne that the window faced south-west, and there was therefore no way to see what was going on at the gate on the east side of the property; but it wasn't for the lack of trying. Daphne had never studied the wards around her home, but she figured there would be some sort of indication from them if something happened.

Then again, hadn't her father said that the wards would respond if there was an attack on the current Head of House Greengrass within the boundaries of the property? He should be safe, then, shouldn't he? But what if they managed to force him to step beyond the gate? Would he still be protected?

The sensations of relief and worry kept alternating within her for another ten minutes. The stillness of the house was unnerving – it made her jumpy and uncertain of whatever she heard or saw. Was that Dory moving about in the kitchen, or someone climbing the stairs to the first floor? What was that noise – the front door slamming? Did a branch creak from a rare breeze outside, or –

The door suddenly opened, making them all jump in shock. In the frame stood Jonathan; he looked as well as ever, but his eyes were alert and deadly serious – a look that Daphne had never seen on her father.

'Dad, what happened?' asked Astoria. 'Who were those people?'

To their surprise, Jonathan did not respond to Astoria's questions – he normally always did, even if it was an awkward, private one, and he had to tell her so. This time, he simply ignored her, choosing instead to focus on his wife.

'Where did you want to go for a holiday?' he asked, so suddenly that they all started again.

Isabella stared at him, caught off-guard by the abrupt question. 'Sorry, what?'

'You told me you wanted to go on a holiday, didn't you? Where do you want to go?'

Daphne looked at Astoria, who looked just as bewildered by this question as she felt, then turned to her mother. She frowned as she watched her closely – there seemed to be a sudden glint of understanding in her eyes, even though her whole visage gave the impression of an astonished and confused person.

'Well…' her mother began.

 _She's good. She's really, really good._

'Well,' said Isabella again, 'how about Lyon? We could stay at the family chateau while we're there, the girls will love it. You need a break from work, anyway – it'll be good to get some fresh air.'

Astoria looked completely at sea, but Daphne understood. The sudden discussion about a holiday that year had surely been brought about by the second Death Eater visit to their house in five days. Had they increased their demands? Intensified their threats and warnings? Either way, they were going on a holiday – finally! Her mother had wanted one ever since the end of second year, but then the escape of Sirius Black had forced them to postpone it. Then last summer had been the Quidditch World Cup, and the security fiasco that followed it. With the return of the Dark Lord this time, Daphne had figured her father wouldn't even consider leaving the house, but this visit seemed to have changed his mind.

She wasn't complaining, however, especially since her father readily agreed to her mother's suggestion about going to Lyon. She had never been anywhere south of Paris – they had visited the French capital when she was a little girl, before Hogwarts – so she was rather looking forward to it.

They were to leave the next day, so Daphne hurried off to her room to pack. Thankfully, she had finished with most of her schoolwork, and didn't need to carry all of her textbooks and notes. She spent the afternoon arranging her clothes and other items into a large suitcase, and was just finishing up when her mother entered the room.

'Are you finished, dear?'

'Nearly, Mother,' said Daphne, pulling out a few more dresses from her wardrobe and placing them neatly in her suitcase. 'I just need to get Archibald in his cage tomorrow, once he returns tonight.'

'Yes, well, about that…' her mother suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. 'Your father and I have decided that it's best if we leave our owls here, instead of taking them to Lyon.'

Daphne gaped at her mother. 'B-but why? I need to write letters to my friends, I can't spend the entire summer without Tracey or Blaise to talk to!'

She had conveniently left out the fact that she was writing to Harry as well – her mother had no knowledge of that. In any case, she hadn't lied to her mother: Archibald _was_ the easiest and safest way to communicate with her friends.

'I realise that, Daphne, but I'm sure you understand the situation we are in,' said her mother gently. 'It would be too risky if we took them and sent letters from there, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, but…' Daphne looked around the room, hoping for some inspiration for a counter-argument against this rather valid point. She found nothing, however; the logic was sound, and made absolute sense, given the circumstances. This was no holiday; it was, instead, a step towards saving their skins. No point in staying here in England like sitting ducks for the Death Eaters to target quite easily.

She sighed, extracting her second favourite pair of jeans from the wardrobe and placing it on the chair near her dresser. Isabella didn't say anything, but smiled softly. She leaned forward, planted a soft kiss on the top of Daphne's head, and left the room.

Daphne stared after her mother, resentment mixed with disappointment growing inside her. She was now looking forward to the holiday with a lot less enthusiasm and vigour than she had had before her mother's entrance. No owls for the next six weeks – how was she going to manage? She doubted if the holiday chateau had a working Floo connection; even if it did, her father was sure to bar them from actually visiting anyone, and she had no idea how she was to send any letters or messages through it.

 _The fates must be laughing at me right now._

But Mother was right, she thought to herself, as she finished her packing and shut her suitcase with a soft snap. Regular owls from a particular place would defeat the purpose that they were trying to achieve by going on this holiday. Plus, the travelling distance would probably make for stale news in letters – a one way trip for Archibald could take a minimum of three days. And then there was his distinctive plumage – nearly everyone in Hogwarts knew that he was her owl, and surely everyone knew who she was, too.

 _But no contact for six weeks…no Tracey or Blaise for six weeks…_

 _No Harry…_

 _Oh dear, Harry…_

The letter had been difficult, not to mention painful. She knew he had come to rely on her for support and comfort, and on some level, she was doing the same with him. It felt horrible having to tell him she was going off on holiday, while he was stuck with his relatives (whom, from his letters, she could make out were not very nice people), and that she couldn't speak to him for six weeks.

 _I don't think I can send anything to you until we're back in Britain._

A tear drop fell from her eyes onto the parchment, and her hand shook slightly. Had she fallen for him this much, this quickly? Was she sure of her feelings for him? Could she be certain that this wasn't a teenage romance borne out of a wishful fantasy, but true feelings of attraction and – dare she say it – love?

Getting a grip over herself and her feelings took a while, but she finally managed it, and finished writing the letter. She rolled up the parchment, just as Archibald came swooping in to her room, landing lightly on the head of her bed.

'Hey Archie,' said Daphne. 'Come over here, I've got some letters to deliver.'

Archibald hooted, glided across to her desk, and stuck out his leg without preamble. Just as he did so, however, she heard two low hoots; looking up, she spotted two barn owls perched on her window-sill, jostling for space and being the first one to deliver their notes to her.

 _Finally, they're here._

She took the messages from both owls, and a smile grew on her face as she read through them. Archibald watched with interest as she re-tied the messages onto the owls' legs, unfurled the parchment she had just rolled up, hastily scribbled something at the bottom, then rolled it up and tied it to his own leg.

'To Harry, please,' she said, loud enough for even the barn owls to hear her. 'And as for you,' she added to Archibald, 'stay until you get a reply, okay?'

Archibald gave a very dignified hoot, and took off into the evening, his feathers illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. Behind him, the two, more common barn owls followed, hooting indignantly at having been left behind without so much as a heads-up.

Daphne sighed softly, before she headed out of the room for dinner, one last thought on her mind.

 _I'll miss you, Harry. Stay safe._

* * *

Situated at the confluence of the rivers Rhone and Saone in the south-east of France, the city of Lyon is a bustling metropolis, commanding a status as the third-largest city in France. It is spread over a narrow peninsula between the two rivers and on their opposite banks, with the former expanding as the heart of the business district of the city. Known for its silk factories and printing presses, Lyon's development can be easily traced through history, with its characteristic highs during the Renaissance, and uneasy lows at the time of the French Revolution of the eighteenth century. Now, however, it is steadily establishing itself with a diverse economy of textiles, chemicals, architecture, and gastronomy, while also playing host to the headquarters of the international criminal police organisation, Interpol.

The city of Lyon – as known as Muggles.

From a wizarding perspective, however, Lyon houses the largest community of magic users in France. With its strategic location in the central region of France, the city's oldest train station, Gare de Lyon-Perrache, serves as the origin for the commute to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic – not unlike King's Cross Station in London for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Indeed, it is said that the French Ministry was inspired by the initiatives of Ottaline Gambol and Evangeline Orpington, British Ministers for Magic at the time, to introduce the train as the mode of transport for students, and then to build a magically concealed platform and entrance, right at the heart of the station in the city.

While Paris had been proposed – quite strongly, in certain cases, by the most snootiest of French noblemen – the suggestion was eventually shot down by the more practical members of the French Ministry. As such, hundreds of students, numbering even more than their counterparts in Britain, descend upon the old train station located in the second arrondissement of Lyon, trunks and animal cages in tow. Rather fortunately for the French Ministry, the start of the school term is conveniently on the day when the passenger traffic is less – the Muggle holiday of Assumption Day, which falls on the fifteenth of August every year.

Lyon is also home to the largest wizarding settlement in Western Europe: twice the size of Diagon Alley, and five times that of Hogsmeade. Ruelle Vertique runs in a direct vertical line in parallel to the northern course of the river Saone, on its western banks. No one is quite sure which came first, but the entrance to Ruelle Vertique is also hidden behind a wizarding establishment: La Fleur Epanouie, or The Blooming Flower – not unlike The Leaky Cauldron concealing the gateway to Diagon Alley in London. The story behind its name is lost to time, but it has been run by members of the same family – generation after generation – since its inception.

Unlike their Muggle counterparts, the wizarding society of Lyon has experienced tremendous prosperity over time: from its humble beginnings as a small alley with a few shops, Ruelle Vertique now houses the largest branch of the wizarding bank, Gringotts, along with several high-profile wizarding brands and stores. Indeed, Zonko's Joke Shop has its second largest branch in Europe on the alley, after the one in Stuttgart, Germany. Ruelle Vertique is also known for its wide selection of food and drink – it has seen many a magical traveller and tourist wander through the street, sampling several exotic or local food items, or settling into one of the several wizarding pubs for a pint of the local wizarding brew.

Normally, Daphne would have loved all of it.

Now, however, she hated it.

It wasn't the stay that bothered her; nor was it the choice of city. She knew if she had turned up here in very different circumstances, she would have been awestruck at the beauty of the city; would have marvelled at the sight of Ruelle Vertique and its collection of items; would even have admired the Muggle architecture, even if she couldn't see the point in some of the sculptures and designs. The sheer effort and imagination involved in putting them all together would have impressed her all the same.

Except…this felt like a sentence. Like they were being made prisoners – in paradise. They were forced to move into another home for six weeks, just to save their own skins. A natural instinct, of course – one that was entirely expected from a Slytherin family – but never had it felt so…unhappy, or unwelcome.

Her parents were putting up a brave front: Daphne had to give them enough credit for that. Her father insisted on spending more time with the family, something which he rarely managed to do back in England. Her mother still found time for both family and work – Lyon's rich wizarding history and culture was a gold mine for her research pursuits, while also serving as ideal places to visit at times. And while Daphne knew Astoria had a shrewd idea about this entire 'holiday' front they were putting up, she played along quite well, essaying the role of the good, yet annoying at times, little sister of the family.

For her part, for the first time in her life, Daphne hoped for a return to England from a holiday earlier than usual. Her daily routine, so often an anchor for her, was thrown for a loop with this trip; the fact that she didn't enjoy what she usually would have on holiday also played a major factor in her overall dislike. She missed her home, her owl, her friends…

 _Harry…_

She found herself thinking about the green-eyed Gryffindor a lot more often, now that she had a lot of free time to herself. Invariably, her thoughts about him would end with the same, unnerving question: was it worth it? Was _he_ worth it?

Tracey would have laughed herself silly, and Blaise would probably have given her an amused, yet dubious look, at the direction of her thoughts, but it was the truth. Daphne had never felt this way about anyone else before, and she knew, just _knew_ , that she would never feel like this about anyone else, ever. It seemed far-fetched, unimaginable, and yet…

And at this point, Daphne would bury her face in her hands, silently curse the world for making feelings so difficult to comprehend, and force herself to think about something other than Harry Potter.

This happened too often for Daphne's liking and comfort; unfortunately, it made sure that the days passed _extremely_ slowly in Lyon. Despite being out of the chateau and in the city most of the time, time seemed to crawl along for her, to the point that she developed a tic of checking her watch every so often – something which Astoria noticed.

'What's got into you?' whispered Astoria one evening, two weeks into their stay, as they strode through Ruelle Vertique.

'What?' snapped Daphne, a little too quickly, dropping her left arm to her side. She had been checking the time again.

'You've been doing that so often these days,' said Astoria.

'Doing what?'

Astoria rolled her eyes. 'I'm not blind or dumb, Daph,' she said. 'Why are you so eager to get back every day?'

Daphne didn't answer, pretending instead to peer at a set of fashionable robes on display at a shop window. Astoria glared at her, huffed, and hurried forward to join their parents a few shops down the road.

Daphne sighed inwardly, annoyed with her sister, but more so with herself. She usually prided herself on being in control of her emotions and their outward display – but here, she was behaving like a typical Gryffindor, with her heart on her sleeve. Where was her Slytherin guile and mannerism? Why wasn't she able to focus and compartmentalise her own emotions and feelings?

 _Channel you anger_ …hadn't she given that advice to Harry himself? Wasn't that what she needed to do, too? Channel her emotions: control them, rein them in, rather than display them for the world to see?

 _What's wrong with displaying them to the world?_

 _ **Not right now!**_

 _But that's irrelevant – you hardly do that anyway. Why not do it more often?_

She sighed again, tired of the constant mental conflict that cropped up too often for her liking. She needed a distraction – a real, tangible distraction: something that would take her mind off Harry, even if it was for just a bit.

In hindsight, she felt she should have been careful of what she wished for.

* * *

If there was one thing Daphne was thankful to Lyon for, it was the innumerable hiding places afforded by Ruelle Vertique.

She crouched down low behind a pair of large empty crates – no doubt having contained a shipment from the French wineries in the south, going by the scent – and cautiously peered around the edge. The tiny narrow alley where she had darted into just a few moments ago was, mercifully, empty. Her mind, however, was filled with the same question.

 _How did they find us?_

She would have recognised the weedy looking man anywhere. Theodore Nott Senior – father of her classmate, Theodore Nott – had a distinctive look which he had passed down to his son. Even their facial expressions were similar: the smirk, the slight curl of the lips, and the sneer on his face. Even though Daphne spent most of her time ignoring the little prick, you were bound to notice some things, especially after four years of sharing the same common room and attending the same classes.

Slowly, her wand in her hand, she pulled herself out from behind the crates and padded to the opening of the alley – the only way in or out of the cul-de-sac. The sun shone brightly overhead, its light glinting off the gleaming windows of the shops along Ruelle Vertique, causing a slight glare whenever Daphne shifted her position. The reflection in the glass was still clear, however: she could see the backs of her parents and Astoria a little further ahead, nonchalantly browsing through a selection of dragon-hide handbags.

As quietly and normally as she could project herself to be, Daphne stepped out onto Ruelle Vertique, turned right, and walked towards her parents and sister. Her heels clicked against the cobbled street as she strode up to her father and tapped his arm softly.

'Yes, that's very nice – yes?' Jonathan turned to her. The smile on his face froze slightly at her serious expression. 'Are you alright, Daphne?'

'Can we go home, Father?' asked Daphne softly. Her eyes darted around their surroundings, trying to make sure they weren't being watched. 'I'm a little tired today, I wanted to rest.'

She widened her eyes slightly, desperately hoping that her father wouldn't ask her too many questions, and would accept her story without explanations – for now.

Jonathan's eyes narrowed, and for a split second, Daphne froze. Was he going to ask her something? Would it all be for nought?

But then, another second later, he nodded. Relief washed over her as her father turned to her mother and said, 'Daphne is a little tired. I think we should go home.'

If Isabella was confused at the sudden announcement, she did not show it; on the contrary, she gave a curt nod, took hold of Astoria's hand, and turned on the spot, vanishing with a small 'pop'. A moment later, Daphne grabbed her father's hand, and allowed him to Side-Apparate her back to their chateau.

'What is it, Daphne?' he asked, as soon as they reappeared in the living room. A couple of house-elves scurried in from the adjacent kitchen and took their cloaks away.

'Death Eaters, Father,' she replied, her eyes fixed upon his face. Behind her, she heard her mother draw in a shaky breath, and Astoria said, 'What?!'

'Are you sure?' her father asked, ignoring the other two ladies.

'Very. I recognised Theodore Nott Senior – his son looks exactly like him.'

Jonathan nodded grimly. 'Yes, I thought I spotted him, too, but I couldn't be sure…' he trailed off.

'How did they find us, Jon?' asked her mother, her voice shaking slightly.

He shook his head. 'I don't know, Liz. But Lyon doesn't seem to be a safe place anymore, if they're able to track us until here as well.'

'Do you think we should go back, then?'

Her father did not respond immediately; Daphne recognised his expression as the one he sported while doing some very quick, and very deep thinking. He was staring out the long windows of their chateau, which overlooked the expansive grounds of the estate, on the outskirts of the main city. His forehead was slightly creased, and his jaw seemed quite set and firm.

A minute later, he turned back to them. 'We will depart from here at seven tomorrow morning,' he said, and headed towards his room.

It didn't take too long for them to pack their things, and they were able to retire relatively early that night. The adrenaline shock from the sudden appearance of the Death Eater had worn off, making Daphne realise that she was, in fact, pretty tired. She had wanted to ask her parents about their plans, but exhaustion had won over her, and she was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Their departure the next morning was, by all standards, quite unremarkable. They were able to Disapparate from the chateau by seven o'clock, but their destination was not what Daphne had expected.

'Munich?' she asked, as soon as she looked around – she recognised the buildings in the distance from certain photographs Tracey had shown her before. 'Why are we in Munich?'

Her father did not respond; he seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Presumably it didn't, for he then gestured them to enter a nearby café.

As they ate their breakfast, she noticed her father constantly glancing out the large window of the café onto the street. She couldn't help it at times, and followed his lead – but it looked as normal as any Muggle street would have looked like in the morning.

Jonathan ushered them out as soon as they were done, leading them to a nearby alley. He took Daphne's hand once again, and with a crack, they Disapparated.

The pattern continued that day: her father led them around some of the most popular cities in Europe, an alert expression on his face whenever he arrived at a new place. They ended up visiting Budapest, Milan, Prague, Athens, Barcelona, and even Gibraltar, before, finally…

 _Crack!_

They were back in London: Daphne realised it from the weather and the all-too familiar smell of the Thames, even before she had even opened her eyes. Next second, however, she was forced to open them, almost stumbling over as her father, still holding her hand, led them along the bank of the river.

'What's he doing, Mum?' came Astoria's question, in a small voice. If her mother had responded, Daphne wasn't paying attention to it – she had stopped at the top of a flight of stairs which her father was currently descending. A sign above the stairs flashed the words – 'The Underground'.

 _Muggle transportation? You've got to be joking…_

'Come, Daphne!' her father called from below. She had no time to argue, let alone question, his choice: she forced herself to follow her mother and Astoria down the stairs, through the ticket barriers (by somehow using a small coin her father had bought from a nearby counter), and onto the bustling, crowded platform.

The journey was uncomfortable; which, in hindsight, felt like an understatement. The Hogwarts Express was, up till then, the only experience she'd ever had with train travel – compared to this, that was certainly a luxury ride. Daphne didn't have the faintest idea why everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and why they were so keen to squash into each other just to get inside the carriage. This train was very fast, and it kept swerving left and right, causing her to bump awkwardly into a lot of people. She ended up standing between two extremely tall people after a few stops, and it was with great difficulty that she was able to spot her father getting off the train, and follow him onto the platform.

Without speaking to each other, they hurried up the stairs, past another set of ticket barriers (which swallowed their coins when they were inserted into the slot provided), and out onto the open street –

– only to be greeted by Professor Albus Dumbledore and Professor Minerva McGonagall.

'Good evening,' greeted Dumbledore, his robes of deep plum billowing slightly in the breeze as he strode up to shake hands with her father. 'I trust your journey went well?'

Beside them, Daphne saw Professor McGonagall wave her wand in a complicated manner; next moment, she felt as though they were enclosed in a dome-shaped bubble, blocking out the noise from the passing Muggles. Indeed, the bubble seemed to be more than a simple Silencing Charm, for the Muggles appeared to not notice the gathering of two oddly dressed people and a family of four right outside a London Underground station named 'Archway'.

'Tiring, but yes, we were able to make it back safely,' her father replied. 'Thank you for your help, Albus.'

'Not at all, Jonathan,' said Dumbledore kindly. 'A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs Greengrass,' he continued, addressing her mother with a gentle smile. 'And you too, Miss Daphne and Miss Astoria Greengrass.'

Daphne and Astoria could only nod silently as their mother exchanged pleasantries with the Hogwarts Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress. The astonishment of running into these two in what seemed to be the heart of London still hadn't worn off yet.

'We cannot linger, Albus,' said Professor McGonagall sharply.

'Quite right,' said Professor Dumbledore, consulting his watch. Daphne glimpsed its face just before he pocketed it – there were no numbers, but only planets. 'The signal should be given any time now.'

Right on cue, as though someone had heard him speak, Daphne saw a shower of green sparks illuminate the darkening sky to their right.

'Very well,' said Professor Dumbledore calmly, as though this was the most normal occurrence, 'if you would take our arms, please. And Minerva,' he added, 'if you would let Molly know –'

Professor McGonagall nodded, and waved her wand once more. A silver cat burst out of the end of it – a cat with distinct markings around its eyes; it landed lightly upon the pavement near their feet, before sprinting off in the direction of the sparks.

Daphne took hold of Professor Dumbledore's outstretched right arm, while her father took his left. Beside them, her mother and Astoria had taken Professor McGonagall's arms.

'Excellent. On three, then,' said Professor Dumbledore. 'One…two…three.'

The world twisted and turned around Daphne as the Professors Side-Along Apparated them; the next moment, they had arrived in a small square in a rather unwelcoming neighbourhood. The houses looked quite dilapidated and ugly – grime coated their windows, and piles of rubbish stood unattended outside the front steps.

Daphne had no time to take the rest of the area in, however; within seconds, they had crossed the street to stand outside the nearest row of houses; next second, Professor Dumbledore handed them a handwritten note for them to read and memorise.

As the house came into view, Daphne felt a sudden sense of foreboding mixed with thrill, and inexplicably, joy. Something big was about to happen – something huge, and momentous.

And as they entered the house into a scene of chaos, and as she looked around at their hosts for the summer, her eyes landed upon the boy she had so desperately wanted to meet in person – and his mouth fell open.

'Daphne?!'

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	7. All in a Day's Work

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 6: All in a Day's Work**

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 **Author's Note: Please have a look at my profile for an explanation regarding my prolonged absence. I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

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 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _Daphne had no time to take the rest of the area in, however; within seconds, they had crossed the street to stand outside the nearest row of houses; next second, Professor Dumbledore handed them a handwritten note for them to read and memorise._

 _As the house came into view, Daphne felt a sudden sense of foreboding mixed with thrill, and inexplicably, joy. Something big was about to happen – something huge, and momentous._

 _And as they entered the house into a scene of chaos, and as she looked around at their hosts for the summer, her eyes landed upon the boy she had so desperately wanted to meet in person – and his mouth fell open._

' _Daphne?!'_

* * *

The silence that had fallen upon the occupants of the hallway was so abrupt, it was deafening. Sirius and Hestia had managed to close the curtains over Mrs Black's portrait, and Fred and George had finished Stunning all the others to sleep. Not a sound came from anyone in the area, save for the fading mutterings of Kreacher as he scurried off towards the kitchen in the basement, the large locket in his hand.

And then –

' _Sirius Black!_ '

The feminine scream of horror almost woke up Mrs Black – her curtains certainly twitched noticeably – but she remained mercifully silent. Harry glanced at the woman who had shouted – she was, quite clearly, Daphne's mother. They had the same blonde hair, and even the shape of their eyes was the same. Daphne, however, had inherited her sapphire blue eyes from her father, whose countenance had darkened as he spotted the source for his wife's fear.

'What is the meaning of this, Albus?' he asked, his eyes not leaving Sirius' face. 'Why is this… _murderer_ here?'

Harry saw Sirius shudder a little at the words, and he thought he knew why that was – despite not being the Secret Keeper for the Potters' hiding place in Godric's Hollow, Sirius still blamed himself for James and Lily's deaths.

' _Harry…I as good as killed them.'_

'He is no more a murderer than I am, Jonathan,' said Dumbledore. His voice sounded calm, but Harry could detect a stern undercurrent to his tone. 'He is, in fact, our host – we are currently inside the House of Black, which serves as the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.'

The man – Jonathan Greengrass – narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing more. His eyes slid from Sirius to Hestia next to him, to Fred and George, their wands still raised and pointing at the last portrait, to Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley, who were all sporting expressions of various degrees of surprise, and lastly, to Harry himself, who had exclaimed Daphne's name in astonishment.

Harry stared right back at the man, bright green boring into striking blue, until, quite perceptibly, Mr Greengrass shifted his gaze to Harry's forehead, where the famous lightning bolt shaped scar was visible above his round-rimmed glasses.

'Harry Potter…' he murmured. Harry noticed Sirius stiffen at the words – and so did Ron – but Mr Greengrass said nothing more towards or about Harry. Instead, turning to Dumbledore, he said, 'We have plenty to discuss, Albus.'

'Indeed,' acquiesced Dumbledore, inclining his head slightly. 'Perhaps we can do so in the dining room. Molly?' he added, turning to the Weasley matriarch, who gave a sudden start, but recovered quickly.

'Yes, of course, Headmaster,' she said, and without further ado, she hurried down the steps towards the kitchen, almost knocking over Hermione in the process. Ginny gave the new arrivals a curious glance, before following her mother downstairs.

'They will join us shortly,' said Dumbledore. 'The dining room is this way – Hestia, might I ask you and Sirius to lead them there? I will join you in a moment.'

Hestia nodded, and made eye contact with Mrs Greengrass first. 'Of course, Albus. Right this way, er –'

'Isabella,' supplied Mrs Greengrass.

'Right,' said Hestia again. She turned on the spot and headed for the dining room a few doors down the corridor.

'Jon,' said Mrs Greengrass gently. Mr Greengrass, who had been keenly observing Sirius, broke his gaze and followed his wife and Hestia. Harry saw Sirius give a questioning glance at Dumbledore, before trailing behind Mr Greengrass.

As soon as the door was shut, Dumbledore looked at the group of students assembled before him. Harry thought he saw Dumbledore's eyes look rather sorrowful, as though he was already regretting what he was about to do. He was proved right with the next words that were spoken.

'I am afraid I must insist on your exclusion from the discussion –' he began, but he was immediately interrupted by groans and moans from everyone, except Daphne and her sister. Dumbledore raised his hand to stem the objections, but Harry overrode him.

'Why, sir?' he asked firmly and rather loudly. 'And please don't bring our age into play, sir,' he added quickly, as Dumbledore opened his mouth to explain. 'You and I both know that Voldemort –' he ignored the winces and gasps from everyone except Dumbledore '– doesn't care about age.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daphne staring at him, and immediately began to feel a little self-conscious; he could sense a blush creeping up his back and spreading to his neck, but he determinedly stared right at Dumbledore. The latter, however, didn't seem interested in making eye contact at all; indeed, he seemed to be staring at a sport right next to Harry's shoulder. The others, all standing at different positions, with different views of the conversation, didn't notice this.

'Harry, it is far too dangerous for students to be involved in this,' said Dumbledore. 'Crucial information could fall into the wrong hands.'

'Are you saying that you don't trust us, sir?' asked Harry immediately. Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Hermione – no doubt, she was appalled and shocked at his curt and rude manner of speaking with their school headmaster – but he was past the point of caring. Harry wasn't sure where his newfound confidence was flowing from – maybe it was the presence of Daphne, seeing her after so many weeks, or it was the fact that finally, he could probably do something to help in the conflict against Voldemort. Either way, it felt…refreshing.

'It is not a question of trust, Harry,' said Dumbledore, but Harry knew his argument was failing. He crossed his arms above his chest, ready to present another counter-argument.

'Then what is it, Professor? Because, as far as I can tell, it's going to come down to either me or Voldemort at the end of it. I'd probably be better off knowing what I need to know, rather than groping in the dark and making mistakes, don't you think so?'

There was no mistaking _this_ : Dumbledore's brilliant blue eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles at Harry's statement. He was sure Ron and Hermione had noticed it, too. This confirmed one thing for sure – Dumbledore believed that Harry would have to face Voldemort in the end, and if _Dumbledore_ , of all people, believed that…

At that instant, Harry decided to throw caution to the wind.

 _In for a Knut, in for a Galleon._

'So, it's true, then?' he said, softly. 'It will be me against him in the end.' And, in a sudden stroke of inspiration, he added, 'Is that what the guard duty is all about? Guarding me? Am _I_ the weapon, sir?'

Dumbledore closed his eyes; for a moment, Harry thought he had gone a bit too far – not in upsetting his headmaster, but in pushing him over the proverbial emotional edge. Dumbledore seemed to be visibly struggling with something, and when he opened his eyes, there was a slight tinge of moisture within them, along with a definite dim in the twinkling effect.

'I…understand, Harry,' he said quietly, so much that Harry thought he'd initially misheard him. Fred and George's dramatic reactions, however – they'd dropped their wands to the floor with a clatter – proved otherwise. 'You are correct – there is no justification for me withholding such information from you, especially when it is quite clear that Lord Voldemort seems to have a personal desire to kill you.'

It wasn't outright, Harry noted, but it was enough – Dumbledore had, in essence, confirmed his hunch on the final confrontation, while also agreeing to the demand for sharing information with him. A few seconds later, however, he realised that there were going to be conditions to this.

'However, I must insist – and this time, I leave no room for objections – that while you may ask me anything you wish to, I will provide answers only to those which I deem necessary for you to know.'

Harry noticed Ron looking a little disappointed at this – and so were the twins, for that matter – but he did not disagree with Dumbledore on this count. It was better, as Lupin had said, that they got the solid facts about everything that was going on, instead of theories of the truth based on snippets of conversations.

He nodded his acceptance, and Dumbledore seemed to relax at that.

'Thank you, Harry,' he said. 'And now, if you will excuse me, I must have a word with Kreacher, before he disappears.'

'With Kreacher?' said Ron in astonishment, his eyes wide. 'But-but –'

'Indeed, Mr Weasley,' said Dumbledore with a smile. 'He possesses an item which I must procure, before it once again falls into the wrong hands.'

And on that rather intriguing note, Dumbledore swept past them down the stairs.

Silence fell upon them once more for a few moments; no one really knew what to say. Fred and George were gazing at Harry in awe, as though they couldn't fathom how he'd managed to stand up and actually win an argument against Dumbledore. Ron was staring after Dumbledore, doubtless wondering why he had to get anything from Kreacher, of all people. Hermione was looking at a random spot on the wall, a worried look on her face as she processed the conversation. Astoria, the younger Greengrass girl, was looking around the hallway in interest, as though fascinated by its gloomy interiors.

And as for Daphne…

Harry's eyes had moved of their own accord to stare at Daphne, as though he was committing the image of her to memory. He seemed to have forgotten how she looked – soft blonde hair that cascaded down to just below her shoulders and framed her round face in the most endearing manner, piercing blue eyes which, at that moment, held so much warmth as she looked right back at him, a ghost of a smile caressing her lips…

He remembered the wonderful sensation of those lips touching his skin, as she kissed his cheek at the Yule Ball last Christmas – he had blushed profusely, but it had been absolutely worth it. He had stared at her for a long time as she danced with Adrian, and had convinced himself that there was no way she could possibly look more beautiful than she had done that evening.

But as he continued to look at her in the hallway of Grimmauld Place, he realised how very wrong he'd been.

He was vaguely aware of himself descending the last few stairs and making his way to her; dimly registered her blue eyes widening in mild surprise as he reached her, although there did seem to be a sparkle of hope within them; barely paying attention to Fred and George's jaws dropping, he opened his arms and pulled Daphne into an embrace.

All his fears about the Ministry hearing, his apprehension about Voldemort and his eventual fate, his annoyance at Dumbledore and the Order for leaving him in the dark, seemed to melt away as she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him back. It was as though he was clinging onto a lifeline, but had only realised just then that he had needed it all this while. He tightened his grip around her frame, burying his face in her soft hair, the scent of apricots filling his nostrils as he did so.

'I missed you so much,' he mumbled into her hair. She chuckled softly into his chest.

'So did I,' she whispered back, giving him a gentle squeeze.

Before he could say anything more, however, there was a sound of a throat being cleared rather distinctively. Harry pulled back from the embrace and saw Fred and George smirking at him.

'Well, Harry…' said Fred slowly, his grin widening.

'This is a surprise,' said George.

'Gryffindor's Golden Boy…'

'And Slytherin's Ice –'

'Finish that sentence, and I will show you exactly how I earned that ridiculous nickname, Weasley,' said Daphne in a dangerously low voice.

George shut his mouth at once. Fred sniggered, but he too fell silent when Daphne directed her glare at him.

'Well, this explains a lot,' said Astoria, who sported a smirk rivalling that of the Weasley twins. 'No wonder you were miserable in Lyon.'

'Lyon?' asked Hermione in surprise. 'What were you doing there?'

'Precautionary measures,' said Daphne, extricating herself from Harry's arms, although she clutched his hand firmly. 'We were being followed. I don't know why Father brought us here though…'

'Well, allow us to welcome you to the magnificent Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,' said Fred with a regal bow and mischievous wink at the Greengrass sisters. Daphne raised her eyebrow in mild amusement, but Astoria grinned widely.

'Safest place in the world right now, apart from Hogwarts and Gringotts,' added George, also bowing. 'We are at your humble service, fair ladies.'

'Are they always like this?' whispered Daphne to Harry.

'Pretty much,' said Harry, 'but you'll get used to it.'

Astoria, who was still smirking, marched up to the twins, who were still bowing down low, and patted their heads appreciatively. 'Good. Well, then, why don't you help us unshrink our trunks, and take them upstairs to our rooms?'

Fred and George straightened up at once, looks of mock horror on their identical faces. Astoria smiled sweetly at them.

'Come on, they won't unshrink themselves, will they?'

The twins looked at each other, then grinned at Astoria.

'She has our spirit, George!'

'Indeed, Fred. I think we may have found our next Marauder!'

'Good grief,' sighed Hermione, as the twins shook Astoria's hands energetically and introduced themselves with much gusto. 'Since when did Fred and George start training proteges?'

'Since now, apparently,' said Ron, who'd sidled up to stand next to Harry and Daphne. 'Blimey, I didn't know we could have convinced them to lay off on the pranks if we agreed to help them with it.'

'You would have still been their guinea pig, though,' said Hermione. 'Only, it would've been with your permission.'

'Fair point,' conceded Ron. 'Anyway…' he turned to Daphne, 'I don't think we've officially met, and rescuing Harry from the fake Moody's clutches doesn't count.' He grinned and stretched out his hand in greeting. 'Ron Weasley.'

'Daphne Greengrass,' said Daphne, smiling at him, before turning to Hermione. 'And you're Hermione Granger – you need no introduction.'

Hermione blushed at the implied praise. 'Thanks. How's your summer been?'

'Average, at best,' replied Daphne grimly. 'Lyon would have been so much more fascinating if it weren't for the Death Eaters…'

She trailed off, even as Harry squeezed her hand reassuringly. Hermione looked alarmed at her statement, however.

'Death Eaters in Lyon? How did they find you there?'

Daphne shrugged. 'I have no idea.'

Just then, Mrs Weasley and Ginny came up from the basement, their arms laden with trays of food and Butterbeer bottles. A few trays were floating in front of Mrs Weasley, held aloft with her wand.

'Why are you lot still out here?' she asked, looking around at them. 'You should be up in your rooms, go on.'

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but was beaten to it by someone else.

'They will stay, Molly.'

Dumbledore was ascending the stairs right behind them, looking rather pleased with himself. Harry thought he caught a glimpse of a gold chain, which Dumbledore quickly ensconced in the pocket of his robes as he reached the hallway landing.

'B-but Albus –' spluttered Mrs Weasley. It was quite clear that she was struggling to reconcile her earlier instructions with the surprising leniency displayed by Dumbledore in allowing the students to be a part of this discussion. 'They are not members –'

'No, they are not,' agreed Dumbledore, 'but they have as much right as all of us to be a part of this. In any case,' he added, his gaze sliding over the students, 'we have agreed that only certain necessary information would be shared, rather than every single detail.'

'I – but –'

Dumbledore shook his head, and indicated that they should all follow him to the dining room. As one, the students, including Ginny who was still carrying the food trays, fell into step behind in, and trooped inside the room.

It was a long room, most of which was taken up by the enormous table that stood in the centre. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its brackets occupied by candles that flickered occasionally; the green snakes entwined around each of the holders provided the mysterious green tinge to the light that suffused the room. With the capacity to comfortably seat twenty people, it was useful for the Order to conduct meetings and discussions.

Right now, it was occupied by the five adults who had made their way in earlier. The head of the table had been left empty – ostensibly for Dumbledore himself. Mr and Mrs Greengrass had made themselves comfortable in the seats to the right of the head, while the three Order members – Professor McGonagall, Hestia, and Sirius were seated opposite them.

Harry could tell that the atmosphere in the room wasn't one that would ideally be conducive for meetings – at least, amiable ones which could result in tangible resolutions. Mr Greengrass was sporting an expression of suspicion bordering on dislike as he stared at Sirius. For his part, Harry's godfather looked rather nervous at the scrutiny, attempting to look everywhere but at Mr Greengrass.

All eyes, however, turned to the door as Dumbledore and the others stepped in – and just as Harry had expected, objections were raised at once.

'Daphne, Astoria, you must not be here –'

'They are here on my request,' said Dumbledore calmly, overriding Mr Greengrass' statement. The head of the House of Greengrass spun to gape at Dumbledore in astonishment, and not a little bit of fury, but did not say anything further. Dumbledore, who had seated himself at the head of the table, was looking right back into Jonathan's blue eyes; Harry had the odd feeling that they were communicating without speaking, a notion that seemed to be confirmed when Jonathan nodded and sat back down.

'Albus?' queried Professor McGonagall tentatively, as though unsure if this was the right choice. Dumbledore merely smiled genially and shook his head, leaving her without comment.

It took a few minutes for the new entrants to settle themselves at the table. The sounds of chairs being dragged back were mixed with the scraping of the food trays across the table. Harry sat beside Sirius, and drew up the chair next to him for Daphne, an action that did not go unnoticed by her parents. Astoria and Ginny took the next seats, while Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Mrs Weasley sat down beside the Greengrass adults.

Harry hadn't realised how hungry he'd been – the sandwiches they'd had for lunch seemed like an age ago – and he ate and drank with much relish along with the others. For a few minutes, there was silence in the room except for the chink of cutlery against plates, and the occasional dull _thunk_ as bottles were replaced on the table after sips were taken by their owners.

Once they'd finished, Dumbledore spoke. 'There are a number of things that I wish to discuss with you all, but firstly, allow me to introduce – to those who don't know them – Jonathan and Isabella Greengrass, and their daughters, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass.'

Mr Greengrass inclined his head politely towards Dumbledore. 'On behalf of my family, I want to thank you, once again, for the assistance you have provided to us.'

Dumbledore smiled genially at him. 'You are most welcome, Jonathan. We were fortunate that we could find you in time to help you. Lord Voldemort seems quite adamant in having you on his side.'

Harry vaguely noticed that, while Daphne and Astoria joined the Weasleys, Hermione and Professor McGonagall in shuddering or flinching at the name, Mr and Mrs Greengrass did not display such a reaction.

'Do we know why?' asked Sirius.

Mr Greengrass gave him a searching look. 'He wants access to our gold. Greengrass Industries has been doing remarkably well over the last decade. Lucius Malfoy must have passed on this information to his master, of course.'

Sirius nodded slowly, as though contemplating these words, but did not pursue the subject.

'Lucius also sees value in an alliance between the House of Malfoy and my own,' said Mr Greengrass, after a pause.

'An alliance?' asked Professor McGonagall. 'Of what sort?'

Mr Greengrass hesitated slightly, then said, 'Marital.'

Harry felt Daphne squeeze his hand a bit tighter than usual; he rubbed his thumb around her hand to calm her down, even though he felt a swooping sensation of anger towards Lucius Malfoy and the ferret. So, Malfoy thought he was worthy of Daphne's affections, did he?

Sirius had an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at the Greengrass adults; it was hard to tell what was going on behind those eyes of his – eyes that had not yet lost the deadened, distant look, as a souvenir of his stay in Azkaban prison. He nodded slowly as he took another sip of Butterbeer, but, once again, said nothing more.

'His first approach was three years ago, before Astoria was to join Hogwarts,' said Mr Greengrass. 'Naturally, I dismissed him without so much as a backward glance.' He sighed, as though regretting his past actions. 'Lucius must have taken that rather personally.'

'Yes, I expect he has,' said Professor McGonagall dryly. Fred and George snickered quietly at the statement.

'Be that as it may,' said Dumbledore, 'the actions of his Death Eaters appear to suggest that Voldemort is not averse to moving out into the open. As much as I know Voldemort, having taught him in Hogwarts myself, I admit I am at a loss to explain this new approach of his.'

No one said anything to that – not that they had anything to say in the first place, Harry thought. He did understand what Dumbledore was referring to, however – his mind went back to the very first discussion with the Order on the evening he'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, where Sirius had explained how Voldemort worked.

' _Voldemort doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors, Harry. He tricks, jinxes and blackmails them. He's well practised at operating in secret.'_

But Dumbledore was right – this new tactic of his was at complete odds with what they had expected from Voldemort. Was he employing this approach only because the Greengrasses were pure-bloods, or because they were neutral the last time round, and had the potential to sway either way in this war? Harry couldn't make sense of it, and, as Dumbledore had mentioned, neither could he.

He refocused his attention on the conversation when Daphne squeezed his hand gently.

'…cannot forego appearances at the Ministry, Albus,' Mr Greengrass was saying. 'It will not bode well for my family if I do so, they will think we have gone into hiding, and that is a sure sign that Voldemort will go after me more aggressively, if anything.'

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes fixed on Mr Greengrass. 'What are you suggesting, Jonathan?'

'Izzy and I will return to our Manor. The Death Eaters cannot harm me there – the wards invoked by my ancestors promises a painful end to those who attempt to do so. I will continue to work, keep up appearances –'

'And the girls, Jon?' asked Mrs Greengrass, speaking for the first time since they had entered the dining room.

'Let them stay here,' he replied. 'We will tell everyone that they have gone to my cousin's home in Vienna for the summer, but only if asked. He stays in a secluded and well-protected manor – the Death Eaters will not think of going there.'

'Why not let them stay at Greengrass Manor, if it is so well protected?' asked Hestia. 'Why the elaborate ruse?'

Harry was wondering the same thing himself – if the wards around Greengrass Manor protected all of them, it made sense to have them all there.

'Greengrass Manor is rather well-known and conspicuous. While I agree that having everyone together would present a strong front, it may open us to other lines of attack from Voldemort and his followers. I would not risk the safety of my daughters for that.' He paused, then added, in a softer tone, 'Plus, the wards need to be strengthened.'

Harry saw all three Greengrass females stare at the head of their House in surprise.

'They do?' asked Astoria.

Mr Greengrass nodded, but did not elaborate.

'Will you be leaving tonight?' asked Dumbledore.

'Not tonight, no,' said Mr Greengrass. 'I would prefer to wait a week or so before returning to the Manor. We shook off our tail in Milan – I can explain that we were at the villa there during this week before dropping the girls off at Vienna and returning home.'

'Very well,' said Dumbledore cheerfully, his eyes twinkling once again. 'With that settled, I would like to discuss other things of importance. Firstly…' he turned to Harry, even though he still did not look directly into his eyes. 'Your hearing, Harry.'

Harry's stomach gave an uncomfortable jolt at Dumbledore's words. He _had_ been thinking about the hearing every now and then these last two weeks, but no one else had raised it as a conversation topic since Sirius had mentioned it after he, Harry, had apologised to Mrs Weasley. It had hung over him like a small dark cloud, persistently refusing the occasional shafts of happy thoughts to pierce through and lighten his day completely.

It was a few seconds before Harry noticed that the Greengrasses did not know about his upcoming hearing – they were all sporting expressions of confusion of varying degrees. Daphne, in particular, was looking at him in a little alarm.

'A hearing?' she asked, her grip tightening around Harry's hand under the table. 'What for?'

It took the combined efforts of Hermione and Dumbledore to explain the entire situation to them. When they had finished, Astoria looked shocked, while both Mr and Mrs Greengrass adults had pensive looks. Daphne's expression, however, was the one that caught Harry's attention: her look of alarm had transitioned into one of worry and apprehension. Harry's stomach gave a funny leap at the sight – the fact that she _cared_ , this much, meant so much more to him than he could possibly express in words.

'Death Eaters and Dementors,' murmured Mr Greengrass, shaking his head. 'Have they deserted the Ministry already to side with Voldemort?'

'Not to our knowledge,' said Dumbledore. 'Our contacts within the Ministry assure us that the Dementors are still under their control.'

'Which means someone wanted Mr Potter here to be silenced,' concluded Mr Greengrass. 'Rather emphatically, might I add.'

The implications of that statement hit Harry on the head with the force of a large Quaffle that he'd forgotten to catch. He'd known that the Ministry was working on swaying public opinion against him, but to actually have him silenced…

'It could also mean that a Death Eater inside the Ministry triggered an attack by sending those Dementors,' said Sirius. 'We can't rule that out.'

'No, we can't,' agreed Mr Greengrass. His sapphire blue eyes were narrowed in thought, as though contemplating an interesting mark on the large table before him. 'But it is unusual…'

'Are there Death Eaters in the Auror ranks, then?' asked Fred.

'None that we know of, Mr Weasley,' replied Professor McGonagall. 'Although, I seem to recall Amelia telling me that only certain high-ranking officials had the power to direct the Dementors of Azkaban.'

'High-ranking officials?' said George. 'As in, Fudge?'

'Amongst a few others, yes,' confirmed Dumbledore. 'It is a grave situation, and as Jonathan has rightly pointed out, a rather unusual one. Personally, however, my focus is on building Harry's defence for his hearing.'

'Do you intend to argue for him, Albus?' asked Mr Greengrass, now meeting the headmaster's eyes.

'I had contemplated doing so,' said Dumbledore, stroking his chin as he sat back in his chair. 'As I am no longer the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I am free to argue as the defendant's representative. Given the circumstances, however…'

'I would not advise it, Albus,' said Mr Greengrass. 'It would amount to blatant favouritism if you showed up as Mr Potter's defence advocate. He must be represented by someone…impartial.'

All eyes at the table swivelled to Mr Greengrass, even as the man continued to look at Dumbledore. Harry took a moment to figure it out, and voiced it before anyone else did so.

'You?'

Mr Greengrass looked away from Dumbledore to gaze at Harry. The sapphire blue eyes seemed to look right through him – just like Dumbledore's did – and he could now understand why Sirius was nervous earlier under Mr Greengrass' scrutiny.

'I would not mind doing so, Mr Potter,' said Mr Greengrass. 'I am, as they say, a neutral party in this entire conflict. I would have nothing apparent to gain from the outcome of this hearing, apart from a small dent to my reputation should you lose. As it stands, I find it unlikely that you would lose this hearing, given that you have a plausible story that is backed up by witnesses –'

'Ah,' interrupted Dumbledore. 'I fear that is where we may hit our first snag, Jonathan.'

Mr Greengrass looked nonplussed at Dumbledore, waiting for him to elaborate, which he did.

'The _witnesses_.'

'What about them?'

Harry thought he realised what Dumbledore was getting at – it was something that had struck his mind, too, while he'd been brooding over the hearing. To his surprise, Ron spoke up first.

'How will we explain Tonks and my Dad being there at Privet Drive? Not to mention Hermione, too.'

Mr Greengrass seemed completely thrown by this – whether it was because he didn't have an answer to the question, or he didn't even think this was a valid question in the first place. Nevertheless, he sat quite silent as everyone else, thinking of a solution.

'That can be managed,' said Dumbledore after a couple of minutes. 'We shall think of something before going for the hearing. In any case,' he addressed Mr Greengrass, 'am I right in presuming that you would be amiable to represent Harry in his hearing?'

'Yes, of course, Albus,' said Mr Greengrass. 'We will formulate a strategy with Mr Potter while we are here. The hearing is on the twelfth of August, yes? Then we have time to prepare.'

Harry nodded at this, a feeling of hope cresting within him. He was, truth be told, a bit overwhelmed at the show of support from everyone present, but the icing on the proverbial cake was Mr Greengrass' willingness to act as his representative at the hearing. He wondered what it would have been like if he hadn't spoken to Dumbledore earlier that evening – he probably would have floundered his way through the hearing, not knowing what exactly to say, or how to defend any possible arguments…

'Thank you, sir,' he told Mr Greengrass, who nodded. Daphne squeezed his hand once again.

Footsteps sounded across the hallway outside, prompting Mrs Weasley to step outside and check who it was. There was a general lull in the conversation as they waited for her to return – which she did, five minutes later, with Mr Weasley, Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

'May I introduce Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora –' Tonks made a small noise of disgust, to no avail '– Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt,' said Dumbledore, standing up to introduce them to Mr and Mrs Greengrass. 'Gentlemen, lady, this is Jonathan and Isabella Greengrass, and their two daughters, Daphne and Astoria.'

'Professor Lupin?' chorused Daphne and Astoria, staring at their one-time Defence against the Dark Arts professor.

'Yeah, that was our reaction, too,' said Fred and George in amusement.

'Good evening, you two,' said Lupin warmly. 'I trust you are both well?'

The two girls merely nodded, evidently still surprised that he was there in the same house. He chuckled at their reaction, before hurrying forward to shake hands with Mr Greengrass.

The gathering broke up rather quickly after that. The new arrivals wanted to discuss Order-related matters with Dumbledore and Mr Greengrass; with a swift nod in his direction from the headmaster, Harry recognised his dismissal from the room. He did not complain though – he had learned enough about what was happening from their earlier conversation, and didn't feel like pushing his luck in getting any more information from Dumbledore. In any case, he figured as he climbed the stairs to their rooms, if there was something worth knowing, he was sure Sirius would tell him.

The teenagers split up on the second landing, with the girls going off to their rooms, while the boys traipsed further upstairs to theirs. Mrs Weasley was still downstairs, so they could have still continued a discussion in one of the rooms, but the day's events had caught up with them. Harry, especially, felt quite knackered, what with the cleaning, the shock of seeing Daphne, confronting Dumbledore, and processing the things he'd heard and learned about in the dining room.

Quite frankly, he was all set to have a good long sleep – something hopefully undisturbed by thoughts of long corridors or the upcoming hearing.

Unfortunately, that flew out the window within five minutes of he and Ron getting into bed.

'Harry?' said a soft voice.

It was Mrs Weasley; without his glasses, Harry could just make out the shape of – someone – poking their head into the room, but he recognised the voice immediately. He sat up, hastily placing his glasses on his face as Mrs Weasley's visage came into clearer focus. Beside him, Ron was already snoring deeply.

'Harry, dear, Professor Dumbledore wants to have a word with you downstairs.'

 _Dumbledore wants to speak with me?_

Mystified, and a little groggily, Harry got out of bed and followed Mrs Weasley downstairs to the dining room, where Dumbledore was waiting with Mr Greengrass. No one else was around.

'Harry, I'm so sorry to disturb you in your sleep, but this could not wait,' said Dumbledore apologetically. Harry noticed that the headmaster still wasn't making eye contact.

Harry shrugged. 'It's alright, Professor,' he said. 'What's happened?'

'Nothing's happened, yet,' said Dumbledore, with a genial chuckle. 'I was telling Jonathan about your request earlier this evening to be more involved in discussions, and to be kept updated in what's going on in our resistance against Voldemort.'

Harry didn't know what he had to say to this, so he merely nodded and stayed silent.

'I also told him, and the other members of the Order, that I had agreed to your requests, with the condition that I let you know only what I think is necessary, and, for lack of a better word, non-crucial.'

Again, Harry nodded, looking from Dumbledore to Mr Greengrass.

'Jonathan here,' he indicated Mr Greengrass, 'feels that while you are trustworthy enough not to reveal this information to anyone willingly, you must be able to protect your mind, in the event that someone with less than noble intentions wishes to obtain such information.'

Harry was paying a bit more attention now. Mr Greengrass wasn't looking at Harry, but was staring in another direction; Harry could tell he was listening intently, though – his eyes were fixed on a particular point on the opposite wall.

'To this rate, we discussed, and thought it necessary, that you must be taught on how to protect your mind from such intrusions.'

'Like mind reading?' asked Harry suddenly. 'Sir?' he added hurriedly, afraid he'd sounded rude.

'Not quite,' said Dumbledore with a smile. 'Tell me, Harry, have you heard of Occlumency?'

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	8. There's Always An After

**The Champion's Legacy**

 **Chapter 7: There's Always An After**

* * *

 **Author's Note: I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it. Don't forget the second author's note at the end of this.**

 **Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…_

 _Harry was paying a bit more attention now. Mr Greengrass wasn't looking at Harry, but was staring in another direction; Harry could tell he was listening intently, though – his eyes were fixed on a particular point on the opposite wall._

' _To this rate, we discussed, and thought it necessary, that you must be taught on how to protect your mind from such intrusions.'_

' _Like mind reading?' asked Harry suddenly. 'Sir?' he added hurriedly, afraid he'd sounded rude._

' _Not quite,' said Dumbledore with a smile. 'Tell me, Harry, have you heard of Occlumency?'_

* * *

The days leading up to Harry's hearing at the Ministry of Magic were eerily similar to those before the Triwizard Tournament tasks – a considerable amount of nervousness, no shortage of anxious faces, and a definite, palpable feeling of what Hermione termed, in an apparent attempt to lighten the mood, as 'the worry over whether Murphy's law would impact them: what can go wrong, will go wrong.'

Despite the gloom, Harry considered it quite worth it to see Ron's freckled face transition from initial mystification about Hermione stating a Muggle quote, to blanching at the explanation, doubtless trying to work out how and when their bushy-haired friend had started having such morbid thoughts.

The one thing that was different in these two weeks, however, was the fact that Harry somehow found himself extremely occupied the entire time. A good bit of it was, admittedly, spent with Mr Greengrass – but only a small portion of that 'good bit' was on preparations for the hearing. With the standard protocol of a hearing for underage magic use being a discussion with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – which counted the Improper Use of Magic Office as one of its own – Harry and Mr Greengrass had both agreed that getting into detailed arguments and rebuttals wouldn't be worth the effort. They had therefore restricted themselves to ensuring that, for one, Harry knew what exactly to say when, and for another, he would allow Mr Greengrass to speak at all other times that were considered necessary.

The rest of his time with Mr Greengrass was invested in learning Occlumency, the obscure and rather complex art of defending one's mind against external intrusions. They had spent an hour every evening in the past two weeks, going over the subject and the various approaches to it.

'Occlumency,' Mr Greengrass had said during their first session, 'is the magical art of protecting one's mind against intrusions from the outside. Conversely, an attempt to, in simplistic terms, read another person's mind, is known as Legilimency.'

Harry thought it was rather a lot like mind-reading, simplistic or not, but he didn't say anything. Mr Greengrass didn't seem like someone he would have wanted to cross, rather like Professor McGonagall.

'You must realise, Mr Potter, that the mind is not a book that can be perused or read through at will,' continued Mr Greengrass. 'Muggles speak of mind-reading and accessing another person's thoughts, but it is a lot more difficult than that. A mind, in essence, is a complex entity of its own, layered with thoughts, emotions, memories, feelings, habits, and the like. Protecting it through Occlumency requires skill, dedication, and the ability to compartmentalise.'

'The ability to _what_?'

'Compartmentalise,' repeated Mr Greengrass, giving Harry a slightly reproachful look. 'To mentally partition your thoughts and emotions, so that you are able to, in effect, shut down a part of yourself if you need to.'

Harry thought it was a bit extreme to have separate sections for each of his emotions and thoughts at any given time – eerily, it reminded him of Mad-Eye Moody's magical trunk, with seven different compartments storing all manners of items and artefacts, with each section accessed using a unique key.

'Creating compartments is, of course, something that only very advanced Occlumens achieve,' said Mr Greengrass. 'Employ it in the wrong manner, and it could create a situation of what is termed as 'split personalities': each compartment would display distinct personality states, which is often unknown and unrecognisable to the others.'

Mr Greengrass nodded grimly as Harry's eyes widened at that statement. 'Yes, it isn't a pretty outcome. Compartmentalisation takes exceptional and uncommon skill, and most who attempt to master Occlumency lack this, thereby leading to rather…disastrous results.'

He stood up from his chair in the drawing room, where he had been seated for the last quarter of an hour. Harry made to mirror him, but Mr Greengrass waved him back to his seat.

'At present, Albus and I believe that developing an above-average level of Occlumency skill would be more than enough for you,' he said, pacing in front of the large Black family tapestry. 'Which brings us to –'

'But why?' interrupted Harry. 'Why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it?'

Mr Greengrass stopped pacing and gazed at Harry, who found it quite disconcerting, once again, to be at the receiving end of these stares, especially when those eyes were so much like Daphne's.

'Albus believes,' said Mr Greengrass slowly, as though he was choosing his words carefully, 'that your unusual connection with Voldemort may result in you sharing his thoughts and emotions. It is my understanding that you have experienced this in the past.'

Harry nodded, all too aware of what Mr Greengrass was referring to. The torture of Wormtail at Voldemort's hands, just after the Weighing of the Wands ceremony last November; Voldemort's fury at the three young Death Eaters after the attack on Privet Drive…

Mr Greengrass seemed to have notice where his thoughts had headed, because he gave Harry a few moments to return to the present before continuing. 'Presently, we believe that Voldemort does not know of this connection, nor of this insight into his mind. While it may be useful at times – having a first-hand look into the enemy's plans is always helpful – it could prove risky once Voldemort does find out about it.' He paused, evidently looking for the right words. 'Voldemort could use it to plant false information or trails…or could even look to control you.'

Harry felt himself blanch at that, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open in shock.

'C-control me?' he stammered out. 'As in, like possess –'

'Yes, and no,' said Mr Greengrass. 'It is unlikely that there will be outright possession – and even that is rare and unheard of. However, you may be susceptible to sudden changes in your emotive state, some of which may not be yours in the first place.'

Harry suddenly noticed that he had unconsciously wrapped his arms around himself, despite the warmth from the fire in the room. As if the connection to Voldemort wasn't bad enough, the thought of actively sharing that monster's emotions made him feel tainted…unclean. He shuddered, involuntarily, even as the heat of the flames washed over him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up into Mr Greengrass's concerned and sympathetic face.

'I will not claim to understand with what you are going through,' he said gently, 'but you must know that I will help you in any way I can…Harry. You are not alone.'

More than anything, the declaration of solidarity had done wonders to strengthen Harry's resolve. Mr Greengrass had already implied his intention to side with Harry and Dumbledore at dinner that evening, when he'd agreed to represent Harry at the hearing, but this was an actual statement of intent; an outright expression of where the Greengrasses now stood in the war. And Harry could not help but feel extremely grateful for that, especially at a time when it seemed as though almost the whole wizarding community was against him and his 'attention-seeking theatrics'.

With a jolt, it struck him that this was exactly what Cassius Warrington would have done; he would have sided with Harry – he had, in fact, sided with him as he helped him train for the third task – and he would not have let him face it all alone. Cassius had not abandoned Harry, even in the final moments of his life…

' _Harry, get out of here!'_

Harry shook his head, hurriedly wiping his eyes clean of the tears that threatened to spill over, and mentally berated himself for acting this way. Cassius wouldn't have wanted him to be like this – he would have hexed him for going to pieces, and told him to get a move on. And he would have been right – he couldn't keep falling apart like this every time he thought of his late friend.

And goodness, he'd almost cried in front of Mr Greengrass! Harry could now feel the heat coming off his face from his embarrassment.

Mr Greengrass squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, a soft smile on his face. 'You are not alone, Harry,' he repeated. 'We are with you.'

* * *

The fact that Harry could potentially share Voldemort's thoughts, and possibly even be controlled by them, had hit him rather hard, even after Mr Greengrass' expression of support, but Daphne and Hermione's reprimands and encouragement forced him to get over it rather quickly. His self-recrimination and self-loathing stood no chance against the Gryffindor-Slytherin combination of harsh truth and subtle suggestions, provided by the two brightest witches in his year – one of whom was arguably the brightest witch of the age.

Harry later admitted to himself that the pair of them made for a ruthless and deadly combination, and immediately resolved not to offend either of them, or both together. He was quite sure he wouldn't survive the consequences if he did.

It was thus that, with a renewed desire to win and not let Voldemort's thoughts control him, and Sirius' advice repeating itself in his mind – _'Don't let him control your life'_ – Harry began his training.

'The first step in Occlumency training is to achieve a state of calmness of your mind – a state where your mind is at peace, instead of being troubled or thinking of numerous things at once.'

And so he practised, using a combination of the deep breathing and meditative techniques that Mr Greengrass showed him. It was, admittedly, and a little frustratingly, slow progress; even in the near-total privacy of the drawing room, Harry found himself getting distracted every now and then. Thoughts of the upcoming hearing, and whether or not he would be allowed to return to Hogwarts, flitted in and out of his mind as he sat with his eyes closed, and threw him off his focus more often than not.

Could he be expelled? Harry doubted it – the defence he and Mr Greengrass had prepared was iron-clad. Yet, the butterflies continued to fly around in his stomach, making him feel queasy and more anxious than what was strictly necessary. It didn't help that Mr Greengrass announced that he and Mrs Greengrass would be returning to Greengrass Manor a week before the hearing, as had been originally planned. Despite his distinct lack of progress in his initial Occlumency training, Mr Greengrass' presence itself had been a sort of calming factor. Harry knew their absence would be felt clearly – and not just for him.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but after that tell-all dinner, the Greengrasses had warmed up rather well to the rest of the occupants of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Harry often spotted Mrs Weasley and Mrs Greengrass chatting over a cup of tea in the early hours of the evening, or while they prepared lunch or dinner. Mrs Weasley, in particular, seemed to relish talking to the younger mother, sharing anecdotes of the twins' antics when they were younger, or of Bill and Charlie's achievements in Hogwarts and after. And even though Harry didn't know Mrs Greengrass that well, it was evident that she was enjoying the company as well.

Mr Greengrass seemed to have stepped up his involvement with the activities of the Order. Harry and the others noticed a definite upturn in the number of meetings during the week they were here, and indeed, the number of Order members who showed up for them. Even the Weasleys were surprised that there were these many people who had chosen to side with Dumbledore against Voldemort. Mr Greengrass' inputs certainly appeared to be helping them, for there was a palpable improvement in the mood around the house after the meetings.

But it wasn't just in the meetings where Mr Greengrass was making his presence known: during every dinner, he was to be found deep in conversation with Mr Weasley, Sirius, and Bill Weasley. Lupin, Shacklebolt, and Tonks would join them too, if they were around for the meals. The discussions seemed interesting enough, if the other Order members' expressions were anything to go by, even though Harry couldn't hear what they were about. He had contemplated using the Extendable Ears for a few of them, but that meant he would only have half-baked information with virtually no context – all in all, not the best combination. Besides, with Dumbledore having agreed to share what he could, there was no reason for him to ferret around for more details.

Astoria and Daphne had ingratiated themselves the most, primarily on account of their anticipated extended stay at Grimmauld Place. The two sisters pitched in to clean the last few rooms of Grimmauld Place, such that the house now looked more habitable than when Harry had first arrived. Astoria, in particular, was the livelier and outgoing of the two – she had the knack of making even the dreariest cleaning jobs fun and exciting. What endeared her most to the others, however – and by others, specifically Ginny and the Weasley twins – was her devious streak, and her love for playing a prank. Fred and George appeared to have taken her under their wing and made her an unofficial protégé; it was not uncommon now to see the three of them talking in quiet tones, doubtless, in Harry's opinion, planning the next big joke on Grimmauld Place's other residents.

If he was to be extremely selfish, though, Harry was exceptionally glad that Daphne was staying behind, instead of going with her parents. He'd missed corresponding with her ever since she'd told him about her trip to Lyon, yes, but he hadn't realised, until that week, how much he'd actually missed _her_. Her presence seemed to have filled something in his life – a hole which he hadn't realised even existed. Quite predictably, his joy at having her around was noticeable in his uplifted mood – a fact which didn't escape Mr Greengrass' attention.

'Very good,' praised Mr Greengrass, as during the final session of his Occlumency training, Harry was at last able to achieve some semblance of mental calmness. He flushed a bit at the praise, but acknowledged that he still had a long way to go.

'The fact that you are aware of your progress, and what lies ahead, tells me that you are moving in the right direction, Harry,' said Mr Greengrass. 'Most wizards do not achieve this level of calmness even if they practised for more than a month.'

Harry beamed at the compliment. 'Can I have another go, right now?'

'Not just yet,' said Mr Greengrass. 'I want to discuss your schedule before I return to Greengrass Manor.'

'Oh,' said Harry, slightly disappointed at not getting another try at it, but also because of the reminder that Mr Greengrass was leaving.

'I will obviously not be able to monitor your daily progress while I'm away. While I'm sure that you will be able to continue practising during this time, it would be better for you, and for me as well, if there was someone supervising you, and possibly guiding you on the next steps, should you reach that stage.'

'Erm…alright,' said Harry, figuring that there wasn't much fault in Mr Greengrass' reasoning. In fact, Harry thought he might have asked Mr Greengrass about it himself, after the session that day. 'Will it be Professor Dumbledore?'

'Not Albus, no,' said Mr Greengrass with a shake of his head, 'he is too busy with his work for the Order, and his headmaster duties. Plus, given the reason why we're training you in Occlumency in the first place, having Albus close to you would be detrimental, to say the least.'

Harry nodded, recognising the logic in his words.

'That's why I'm going to ask Daphne to supervise you.'

'What?'

 _What?_

'Daphne is a fairly skilled Occlumens – her mother and I have been training her since her third year at Hogwarts,' said Mr Greengrass with a little bit of pride in his voice. 'Occlumency shields are particularly useful when dealing with Dementors: they help you to suppress your worse memories, while enabling you to access the happy ones with significant ease, thereby producing a Patronus much quicker than you'd normally expect. When we heard that the Ministry was stationing those foul creatures at Hogwarts, it was the least we could do to help Daphne.'

Harry thought this was rather useful information – he hadn't really contemplated employing Occlumency in that manner, but it somehow made sense. Dementors forced you to relive your worst memories, but suppressing those memories under a mental barrier would probably soften the impact on your mind that a Dementor unleased upon it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly wondered what memories Daphne would have not wanted to relive in the presence of Dementors.

'While she has not had much success with the Patronus Charm, she has only improved in Occlumency since then – she takes this quite seriously – and will be a good guide for you on this.'

Harry nodded again. If anything, this gave him the opportunity to spend more time with her, even if he was to be practising during that time.

'It is often said that a happy mind is easier to practice with, so I'm quite certain you will not have problems while Daphne helps you.'

It took a few moments for Mr Greengrass' statement to register with Harry; when it did, he looked away from the man, feeling a fierce blush creeping up his neck. He was sure his face was red as well. He looked back up at Mr Greengrass, expecting a stern glare, but was rather surprised to see a smile playing across his face.

'Isabella and I have noticed what the two of you share, Harry,' he said, pulling a chair towards him and sitting down. 'We saw it when you two entered the dining room that evening – she couldn't stop holding your hand, could she?'

Harry made to protest, to offer some explanation, but Mr Greengrass waved him off.

'I am not worried about my daughter – Merlin knows this is the happiest I've seen her in a long time. You two are just like how Izzy and I were at Hogwarts, or even how James and Lily were during their seventh year.'

Harry, who had been trying to avoid Mr Greengrass' eyes due to his embarrassment, looked at the man at the mention of his parents. 'You knew my Mum and Dad?'

'Not really, no,' said Mr Greengrass. 'Izzy and I were in Slytherin, so our social circles hardly ran together. They were Head Boy and Girl during my sixth year, however, and as a prefect, I had to interact with them quite often.' He smiled at Harry. 'It didn't take a genius to know that the two of them together just made…sense. They _fit_.'

Harry felt a warm glow suffuse inside his chest – hearing others talk about his parents always made him happy and proud, but this…this was something else, altogether.

'I have seen the way Daphne looks at you, Harry, and I know that look. She believes in you, even though she may not realise how much, just yet. You are a good man, Harry Potter. Don't give this up.'

For the second time that evening, Harry smiled at his mentor. He was quite aware that Mr Greengrass had effectively approved his – was it a relationship? Harry didn't know. He had, quite honestly, expected some sort of resistance to the entire idea from her parents. The thought of resistance, however, reminded him of the inevitable backlash that they were bound to face once back at Hogwarts, and his smile faltered slightly.

'What is it?' asked Mr Greengrass.

'It's just…well, I'm in Gryffindor,' said Harry, 'and she's in Slytherin. I don't want her to face any issue in her house, especially since it's me…'

He trailed off, but to his continued astonishment, Mr Greengrass seemed…proud? And amused, too, for some reason.

'You Gryffindors have a streak of nobility that borders on foolishness,' he said. 'And I know you mean well. But answer this, Harry: is it worth it? If it is, you have nothing to worry about, and neither would she.'

Harry knew the answer to that in a heartbeat – Daphne was most certainly worth it, without a doubt. And in that instant, he understood what Mr Greengrass said – if it was worth it, he had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

* * *

Harry didn't tell Daphne about his conversation with her father – he didn't feel he could explain that Mr Greengrass had approved him and Daphne together, when he didn't know himself if they were together in the first place. He thought it would make sense to explain it after they had at least discussed what they were, but opportunities to do so were relatively thin on the ground. Mr and Mrs Greengrass' departure from Grimmauld Place also drove home a number of hard truths, none of which seemed to be helpful for Harry.

There was now barely a week to go for his hearing at the Ministry, and the butterflies were coming back to him in full force. He was finding it difficult to distract himself from thoughts of it going all wrong, and of him being expelled from Hogwarts He had tried reassuring himself by reading through the defence notes and points he and Hermione had prepared for the hearing, but each argument seemed extremely feeble in his head every time he re-read them. How was he going to get through this at all?

His friends had suggested reading something else – the Black family library had a truly astonishing collection of rare and mysterious books – but even priceless duelling and spell books couldn't divert his mind. Hermione had pitched the idea of finishing his homework – he still had his Transfiguration essay to finish, after all – but the words seemed a million miles away when he went through his textbook. It didn't help that a small part of mind – the pessimistic part, unfortunately – kept reminding him that there wouldn't be any point in doing this if he was ultimately expelled. Fred and George called it a case of 'plain old exam nerves' and offered to help by showing him some of their products, but even Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, as fascinating as they were, didn't have that much of an appeal.

He would have thrown himself into doing work of some sort, but with the house almost completely cleaned up for inhabitation, there wasn't much left to do for any of them. The lack of work was further compounded by the fact that, to everyone's absolute bewilderment, Kreacher was being extremely helpful to them. No one really knew how the volte-face had come about, but the general understanding was that Dumbledore had spoken to him and had offered something to him in return for being helpful and courteous to the occupants of the house.

Harry somehow suspected that this wasn't entirely the case – he had a strong feeling that it had something to do with an item that Kreacher had recovered from the mounds of rubbish the Order had deemed fit to throw out, and which Dumbledore had subsequently taken from him. Even Sirius, who had been extremely disdainful towards Kreacher, had had a change of heart, and was now treating him with unmistakeable respect.

Either way, Harry didn't think it concerned him too much – at least he now knew that the ancient house-elf wouldn't sneak into his room and peer at him in the dead of the night.

Speaking of house-elves, Harry was also worried that Dobby was yet to return from his reconnaissance mission of Iris Parkinson, Terence Higgs, and Adrian Pucey. He mentioned this to Ron and Hermione, but they seemed surprisingly unruffled by the delay.

'He might have wanted to make sure that they were absolutely safe,' Ron offered by way of an explanation. 'Or he may still be searching – we don't really know where they are, so he doesn't really have much to work with.'

The thought that Dobby could still be searching did not comfort Harry at all.

His anxiety translating into fear and irritation, it was all he could do to stop himself from snapping at anyone who meaninglessly tried to improve his mood. Didn't they understand how serious this hearing was? Didn't they realise how much an adverse verdict could hurt him – the possibility that he would never become a fully-fledged wizard? That he would never be allowed to do magic, ever? That he could never go back to Hogwarts – his home? How could they possibly deign to believe that it was just a technicality, a simple matter of talking it over and getting everything sorted? Why couldn't they understand the magnitude of the situation?

It finally came to a head during an Occlumency practice session, three days before his hearing. True to his word to Mr Greengrass, he had not ceased his practises, but his mood seemed to have caused him to regress so much, that he could barely focus for thirty seconds to calm his mind down. As Mr Greengrass had deemed him fit enough to start the next level of his Occlumency training, this came as a huge blow – and one that Harry hardly needed.

Daphne's supervision of his practices hadn't helped in the way he and Mr Greengrass had anticipated. She had tried easing him into the calming process every evening, but he almost always ended up doing it himself, and often without success. This frustrated him, and despite her patient exterior, he could tell Daphne was becoming annoyed as well. It resulted in the entirely unwanted cycle of getting upset because he couldn't calm his mind, but not being able to do so because he was upset in the first place.

Finally, it seemed as though Daphne had had enough.

'Okay, what is your problem?' she demanded, standing up from where she'd joined him on the floor and glaring at him.

'What?' said Harry, staring at her defiantly, and with no small amount of irritation himself.

'You've been in a terrible mood for the last few days, and whatever I say or do seems to be annoying you,' she said. 'I don't understand why you're so bothered about the hearing –'

'Well, of course you don't, do you?' Harry fired back, also standing up. 'No one seems to understand that things could go wrong –'

'But Harry, they can't go wrong –'

'And how do you know that?' asked Harry, his voice increasing in volume. 'What makes you so certain that it will be fine?'

'I – well – I obviously can't say for certain –'

'Exactly!' said Harry, almost yelling now. 'So don't expect me to not worry about it, because I will, and because there's a good chance it'll all go pear-shaped –'

'Harry, you're being ridiculous –'

'Ridiculous?!' he half-exclaimed, half-laughed in disbelief. 'I'm being ridiculous now, am I? That's funny, I don't see _you_ worrying about whether I'll be in Hogwarts next term, or worrying about facing Voldemort –'

Daphne winced at the name, but Harry was past the point of caring; it was as though the dam he'd built to keep his emotions in check was now cracking, letting rivulets stream out incessantly, with reckless abandon. He was no longer concerned about making sense, either – everything just wanted to get out.

'– can't seem to be bothered about the fact that I might be expelled, and that I'd probably never use magic again, and that I might never see you again –'

'Of course I care!' shouted Daphne, her eyes filling with tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. 'Of course I'm worried about you, you prat! I just want to believe that you'll win, because quite frankly, I can't bear to think about the alternative!'

'Which is?'

'Which is you and I could never be together, ever!'

Harry stared at Daphne, her eyes still moist, her chest heaving with the quick breaths she was taking to control her fury. More than anything, she had said two things that had penetrated his anger-filled mind: she hoped he would win – probably not just at the hearing alone; and that she wanted to be with him. Together.

Without thinking about it, he crossed the five paces that separated them, pulled her towards him, closed his eyes, and kissed her.

He could feel her surprise and shock through her lips, but she soon melted into it, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him closer to her. Their lips moved together, showcasing a dance of desperation, of need and desire – it was by no means sensual at first, but it spoke volumes of what their hearts had yearned to say, but their mouths never could in absolute words.

After a while, it became softer, gentler – Harry became aware of the sinfully soft texture of her lips, and the way her kiss made him feel as though he was on cloud nine – the luckiest bloke in the world. Her hands played with the hair at the nape of his neck, although his stayed around her waist; he was now partially aware that they were finally kissing, and he didn't want to ruin it by doing anything improper. He did, however, permit himself to gently nibble at her bottom lip, eliciting a moan from her that sent thrills up his spine.

Soon, the desire for fresh air consumed them, and they broke apart, Harry leaving one last kiss on her lips before leaning his forehead against hers. They stood that way for a good minute, panting slightly from the exertion, and knowledge, of their first ever kiss.

'That was…' began Daphne, evidently lost for words.

'Yeah,' agreed Harry. There was no way he, or anyone for that matter, could define that. It wasn't mind-blowing, toe-curling, or any of those adjectives that could possibly come to mind. But it just _was_.

'I won't leave you, Harry,' whispered Daphne. 'I won't ever give up on you, or us. But you have to understand – things will be okay.'

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He could feel a stinging sensation in the back of his eyes – tears of guilt at his behaviour towards everyone over the last few days, and over shouting at her just then. She must have noticed it, however, for she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again, lovingly this time.

'Don't feel guilty, Harry,' she murmured. 'You have nothing to feel guilty about.'

'But I yelled at you,' he said, shamefacedly. 'And I've been a right git to everyone else –'

'They'll understand – we all do,' she said. 'Don't beat yourself up over it, please.'

'I'm sorry, Daph,' he choked out, unable to stop the tears now. 'I'm sorry about it all – Cassius, the hearing, Voldemort –'

'Oh, Harry,' she said, holding him closer as he finally allowed his emotions to break free – feelings that he hadn't even known swirling with him, waiting for a release. The shoulder of her t-shirt ended up getting soaked, but she waved off his sniffled apologies.

'Don't apologise for anything – none of this is your fault. I have faith in you, and that you will win. Just don't ever doubt yourself.'

'Not now I won't,' said Harry, and Daphne gave a watery chuckle.

'Exactly. And, Harry?'

'Hmm?'

'Just remember, whatever happens, we'll all be there for you. Because, one way or another, there is always an after. And we're sure as hell going to be there in it.'

Harry stared at her, a determined expression on her tear-streaked face, her sapphire-blue eyes shining with affection and conviction, and quite emphatically concluded that there was no way she could be more beautiful than that. It got her to laugh – a musical sound that he decided must be heard more often – before he kissed her again.

'Thank you,' he said, after they broke apart. Daphne just smiled at him, silently resting her head against his chest as they hugged each other in the middle of the drawing room.

She was right, he thought – one way or another, there would always be an after.

* * *

 **Author's Note: The line that Daphne tells Harry – "Because one way or another, there is always an after" is something that my really good friend told me when I had some anxiety issues a few days back. It helped me immensely, and I thought it would be rather appropriate to include as a something she says to help Harry deal with his own worries. Thank you so much, Aradhana – this chapter is for you! :)**

* * *

 _To be continued…_


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